


skizzen von berlin

by q_19



Category: Homeland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-04-29 15:20:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 56,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5132504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/q_19/pseuds/q_19
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>season 5 c/q pov sketches, some additional scenes, etc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> starting today, it's a week of fic! (to help the junkies make it to episode 6)
> 
> s5e4, one skizzen a day.

Quinn wakes with a startle, stifles a groan. Remembers taking the bullet to the vest the previous night, didn’t sleep much on the concrete floor, with an unknown entity in his bed. He’s not exactly used to visitors in his dungeon, certainly none that spent the night. 

He sits up, reminds himself that this is all really happening. Rises silently, takes the few steps over to check on his captive, but she’s still out, which gives him a little time. 

Quinn wipes his hand over his face, takes a deep breath. Tells himself it was a long time ago, that it means nothing now. And yet he knows it does. To get her name, at this time. 

Two years in Syria. Maybe the darkest he’s gone. The effects are everywhere on him, in him. Day after day of beheadings, rapes, murder. Doing the only thing he knows how to do well. Kill after kill. One dead enemy at a time. 

And then this deal with Saul, he had been in the perfect frame of mind. Even more cold and calculated than usual, nothing getting underneath the stony exterior. The truth was, Quinn just didn’t give a fuck anymore, only saw the futility of it all. He could kill hundreds more and still nothing would be resolved, just more dead, more bereaved, more at war. 

So it didn’t matter. He didn’t want to make the decisions anymore. It was easier to just do his job, put the evidence in the box, hide away in the hole. Almost as bad as Syria, but at least the devastation of war wasn’t endlessly in his face, and he still had some purpose. Bringer of death. As always. 

Until now. 

He looks at her, still sleeping off the sedative. Grinds his teeth a little, remembers sitting in his car, looking at her name. 

Now there was a fucking turn of events, Quinn thinks. Just the kind of shit that steps out and threatens the nice dark hole you’ve dug for yourself. 

A test. One that he’s determined to pass this time. 

He’s thought this through a million times in the past two days. Locate, abduct, fake evidence, disappear. And now the first two are done, he should be pleased with his progress. 

But she almost killed him the previous night, he has to give her credit for that. And the rest of the plan involves her being awake, actual interaction. Which is the part that’s dangerous. 

Quinn knows he has to make this all happen before it inevitable occurs. No matter how far down he’s gone, how dark he’s managed to make things. He knows himself all too well, can only hold it back for so long. Carrie will wake up, do something completely frustrating and, then, suddenly after months of nothingness, a complete lack of emotion in itself, he will find himself caring. Giving a shit. 

The fact that she’s here, out cold in his shitty bed. That he’s watching her sleep as he makes a sandwich. That he has an escape all planned out. It’s all evidence of what happens when she’s around, his fucking fatal flaw. 

It is a very short list, the people in this world he would not kill if ordered to. Especially lately. But the little jolt he felt looking at her name was undeniable. 

Carrie told him once offhandedly that he couldn’t kill her, no matter the situation. Said it in that ‘yeah whatever’ way she has. And he remembers being upset that she was right, that he could have such an obvious weakness. 

Quinn shakes his head, reminds himself that he’s not allowed to remember. Walks away with his sandwich as if not looking at her will help. But the thing is he already knows he’s fucked, that the best he can hope for is a little more time alive for the both of them. And if that’s to happen, he needs to be rid of her, get back to himself.

So he stands there for a moment, goes through the plan, tells himself she can be on a train by midday, that this problem is transient, can be dealt with. He just has to play it as planned, absolutely cannot let Carrie get to him, get under the armour he’s built up. 

Of course he hears her stir just then, a little movement from the other ‘room’. Puts on his best poker face, goes to meet his fate. 

* 

Carrie wakes in an unfamiliar place, an uncomfortable position. Her hands are zip-tied to a metal cot and she can’t move much. Blinks a few times, suddenly remembers being grabbed from behind, after she thought she had hit her target. 

The fear of being held prisoner rises in her as she looks around the dingy industrial building she seems to be in. The manic edge from the day before is mostly gone but Carrie still feels it thrum in her as she looks around for any clues, indications of where she might be. But all she sees is bleak light, the evidence of slightly squalid living. 

She hears movement behind her, tries to turn her head to look but only manages to see a blur. Panic starts to rise in her gut as she struggles to get a look at her captor, finally find out who is after her. She searches her memory for any clues from the previous night, wonders if just being here, tied up, means she may as well be dead already. 

She keeps looking though, needs to find out what the fuck is going on. Sees someone approach, finally close enough to get a look at. Then has to look twice, convince herself she’s not seeing things. 

He is absolutely the last person she expects to see, yet relief floods through her as he approaches and Carrie sees it’s really him. 

“Quinn,” she mutters to herself. “Oh thank god.” 

As unbelievable as it is, it’s also somehow true. It really is Quinn, wearing his usual serious look. She sits up, expects him to come and cut her loose her. But instead he just leans up against the counter, grabs a knife, looks at her in a slightly menacing manner. 

“Quinn?” she asks, wondering what game he is playing. He doesn’t say a word, starts sterilizing the knife with a lighter. 

And now she’s starting to worry again, doesn’t like that he hasn’t said anything, hasn’t even looked at her. That she’s still tied up and has no idea what’s going on. 

“Quinn, untie me,” she demands, knows she’s giving him a wild look. 

But Quinn still doesn’t reply, has an expression on that makes her stomach nervous. 

“Quinn, what the fuck is going on?” she tries again, a panicked edge to her voice now. 

It’s like he’s angry with her, cold as he can be. But she hasn’t seen him in years, has no reason to be looking at her this way. Suspicious, hard. 

“Your name is on a kill list,” he finally says, still the same expression on his face. 

“I know, I can’t figure it out,” she replies, not understanding how he’s involved in any of this at all. 

“Well, you must have done something, pissed off somebody,” he says coldly. “Crossed the line somewhere.” 

And now Carrie realizes something is wrong, thinks this is not the Quinn she remembers. There’s something very icy in the way he’s looking at her as he preps the knife and she’s reminded of the vicious streak in him. Not that he was ever that way with her; but things change, people change. 

Carrie tries to get the creeping disturbing thoughts out of her head but it’s pretty much impossible with the look on Quinn’s face, his slightly aggressive demeanour. 

So she finds herself genuinely afraid as he unexpectedly runs the knife against his own palm, leans in with a determined look in his eyes. 

“Quinn, Quinn, Quinn” she stutters, still not quite believing she’s actually scared of him right now, that she’s no longer sure what he’s capable of. 

“Don’t move Carrie,” he says, reaches out to grab her face. 

“No please,” she begs. “No, please, please, please.” 

“Stop moving, Carrie,” he repeats, one hand behind her head, the one he cut up against the side of her face. 

Quinn holds onto her tight as he smears his blood all over her cheek, further confuses the hell out of her. Carrie’s still completely stunned, unsure of what to make of anything that’s happened. But at least it finally gets her attention, makes her think she may not be completely fucked after all. 

He looks at her intently as he does it, makes the whole thing even weirder, more fucked up. Then, finally done, he turns around, grabs the knife again. And still she has no idea what this all means, what Quinn has planned. But at least he cuts her loose with the knife, 

“I didn’t do anything, I have no idea where this is coming from,” she says, wants him to understand. Tries to come up with possible scenarios that lead to him having to kill her. Can only think of one thing, yet can’t believe Quinn would do it, go through with it. 

“I swear, no matter what Dar Adal said,” she continues, sure he has to be the one behind the order. 

Quinn grabs her by the shoulders, guides her over to the other wall. Looks at her with that same emotionless expression he’s been using this whole time. 

“Not him,” he tells her. “Saul. Saul put your name of the list.” 

And now he’s saying something that makes no fucking sense at all, does not fit into the world as she understands it. 

“Saul?” she asks, stunned, unbelieving. 

“Close your eyes,” Quinn says, pushing her to the floor. 

“I don’t believe it,” Carrie states, cannot see how it could be true. There is bad blood there of course. But this isn’t something he would do, she can’t accept it. Not Saul. Not after everything they’ve been through together. And to send Quinn to do it, that was just ridiculous. 

“Believe it,” Quinn answers sharply, as if it’s that easy for people to change, become complete unknowns.

She’s starting to wonder if it’s true about Quinn, this cold hard edge he’s honing. He only vaguely resembles the Quinn she remembers, seems to be missing some key components. 

None of it makes any fucking sense, she thinks. Saul trying to kill her, sending Quinn after her. Just being here, in this Berlin dungeon with Quinn, his blood all over her. It’s everything she’s been trying to get away from, all the fucked up shit from her past. 

“Now play fucking dead,” Quinn says a bit harshly, a shitty phone in his hands. 

In any other circumstance Carrie would say something snarky, drop a nasty remark. But she’s so stunned by everything that’s happened, is only just catching up to Quinn’s plan. So she doesn’t fight him, gets that he’s doing what he can with the situation he’s been presented with. Slumps down and plays dead, hears him snap the shot, tries not to remember he’s taking photo evidence of her death. 

Once the photo has been taken Carrie opens her eyes, sits up but doesn’t stand right away. Sits there and watches as Quinn looks at the photo, wearing his usual scowl. 

Finally he glances back at her, gives her that hard look again. But now Carrie’s started to get her bearings, has shed a layer of shock. 

And she’s still scared, doesn’t know how any of this will turn out. Away from Frannie, Jonas, suddenly transported back into the middle of her old life where her unfriendly neighbourhood assassin just told her that someone she once loved and trusted is trying to kill her. 

Yet, as she looks up at Quinn, Carrie oddly gets a feeling of comfort, a sense that things are not quite as bad as they appear. So she’s scared, but not really. She remembers this life keenly, the kind of life where sitting in a derelict church in Berlin wearing Quinn’s blood all over her is not necessarily out of the ordinary. She knows how to do this, will be able to figure it out. 

And then there’s him. Maybe this Quinn isn’t exactly the old one, but she’s alive and he’s risked his own situation for her - so the fundamentals haven’t changed. And for a moment Carrie really remembers him, the shit they’ve been through. Knows that this new steely exterior he’s wearing is his only defense; that he puts it on because he thinks he has to, because he thinks he’s vulnerable.

She glances up again, can tell Quinn’s getting impatient. So Carrie pushes herself to standing, gives him a direct, knowing look. Tries to tell him she appreciates what he did, that she knows he’s still in there somewhere.


	2. 5.4.2

Carrie walks over to the sink as Quinn pulls out the medical kit, sprays a little disinfectant on his hand. 

“Hurry up, we got shit to do,” he says brusquely, wants to get things moving. 

“What, exactly?” she asks, as if she still doesn’t get it. Which seems unlikely, considering who she is. 

“Your fallback plan,” he replies. “Time to execute it.”

 Quinn thinks that this is clear, is surprised she hasn’t come to the same conclusion herself. When you’re on a CIA kill list, it is obviously time to disappear. 

“What if I don’t have one?” Carrie asks ridiculously, as if this is a real possibility. 

Good one, Carrie he thinks, even laughs out loud. There is no way she doesn’t have a stash somewhere, an eject button for her life. Two years is awhile, but it’s not long enough to forget that things can change in an instant. 

“Could be true,” she adds, just as she would. Being difficult, as per usual.

“Cut the crap, Carrie,” Quinn replies sharply. “It’s time to disappear, and fast. This picture buys you time, as long as you keep your head down they won’t come after you.” 

This is all he has been thinking about. Just get her on a train, make sure she’s far away, a different person. Safe, and out of his life again. 

But of course Carrie changes the subject, doesn’t acknowledge his plans at all. Starts asking questions in that the way he knows all too well.

“So, your operation with Saul,” she asks. “How does it work?” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Quinn replies, because it doesn’t. Has nothing to do with what needs to get done. And he doesn’t want her to ask anything, needs her to just follow his plan, get out of town. 

But it’s Carrie and there is no way to stop her from questioning shit, demanding answers. She finishes washing up, walks over to him. 

“Tell me,” she demands, exactly as she does, in that way that tells you you’ve already lost. 

“Saul provides a name. I provide proof of death, return to the drop, get another name,” he replies, as tersely as possible. 

“And last time you went to the drop, you got my name?” she asks, still sounds shocked, hurt. 

“I told you that already,” Quinn replies, just wants her to stop. Because every word she speaks to him makes him remember a little, all that shit he meant to forget forever. 

“Why?” she asks. 

“I don’t know. I don’t wanna know,” he states firmly, tries to communicate that he needs her to stop fucking talking to him, asking him questions. But it’s that persistent Carrie thing, just how she fucking is. 

“But I didn’t do anything,” she argues, as if it makes any difference at all. 

Quinn gets that she has only just found out about this, that she’s still trying to process it all. But he needs her to snap out of this mental shock she’s in, understand the facts on the ground. And it has to be soon, before he lets her fucking get to him. 

“Listen to me, Carrie. Your name was in the box, okay?” he replies sharply. “Probably for something you’re not even aware of. Now I know that’s hard to hear.”

He looks at her hard when he says it, keeps his eyes cold and direct. The facts as she needs to know them, enough to get her on a fucking train. 

“I have to talk to Saul,” Carrie says, as if she’s being obstinate, obtuse on purpose. 

You can’t fix this, Quinn thinks at her in frustration. And it’s not fucking safe to be here anymore. 

“For all you know he was given a direct order,” he says, tries to make it clear exactly how dead someone wants her to be. 

“What’s your point?” Carrie asks, and he tries to remember she hasn’t thought it through a hundred times already. Or then again, maybe she just doesn’t want to face facts. 

And that, for sure, was his job. To state the facts, no matter how harsh. So he tells her flat out, as coldly, surely as he can. 

“Somebody, somewhere, likely very senior, wants you dead,” he states, as explicitly as possible. “If they think you’re not dead, they’re going to send someone to finish the job. You gotta disappear.” 

It’s clear as day to him, just needs her to get it too. Understand that it’s time to put her shit in a bag and get the fuck out of Berlin. Start a new life, learn to forget the past, let him get back to his life in the dark.

*

“Somebody, somewhere, likely very senior, wants you dead,” Quinn tells her, looking her dead in the eyes. “If they think you’re not dead, they’re going to send someone to finish the job. You gotta disappear.” 

Carrie looks away, tries to process this all in a mind full of questions. None of this makes any sense, she thinks. She hasn’t done anything to warrant this. 

And yet Quinn is also right, she just doesn’t want to believe it yet. To go from her safe, happy life to a life on the run, evading assassination attempts, all in a matter of days. Of course, Carrie thinks to herself. It was just bound to be. As soon as she felt a little settled, a bit safe. She’s here in what looks like an abandoned church basement with Quinn, faking her own death. It’s too much to think about, deal with at the moment. 

The other thing is, it doesn’t make any sense. The bombing in Lebanon, sending Quinn to kill her. But Carrie’s sure it fits together somewhere, that the answer is not running away. She knows there must be another solution, that something is not right with this scenario. 

But then there’s the part of her that wonders if she just doesn’t want to face it, the fact of what she has to do. What she’s always known to be a possibility, due to her previous style of life, her history deep in the game. 

When Quinn had asked about the fallback plan, he had sounded so sure. She hates that about him, that he can know her so readily. Two years, she thinks. How long would be enough to live without a backup, a stash just in case? 

Because of course she has a escape plan, a way out if everything goes to shit. Still can’t imagine living without one even though her day to day life has been completely tranquil for over two years, until the past week. And of course Quinn knew it, knows the life they live, knows who she is underneath her stable boyfriend, her civilian job. 

“Time to go get your stash,” Quinn says when he finally looks back over at her. 

It’s only now that everything is really sinking in. That this is for real. 

Quinn expects her to disappear, for who know how long. Leave everything she has. Jonas. Frannie. And she knows he’s probably right, that he’s already taken a risk by doing this, not obeying orders. 

So if it really has come down to this, there is something she needs to do first. 

Carrie takes a breath, looks up at Quinn. He’s wearing that irritated steely expression, clearly just wants to be rid of her. 

“There’s something I need to do first,” she says, dares him to argue. 

He asks the obvious question with just his eyes, indicates his impatience with the same look. 

“Make a video,” she explains “For Frannie.” 

And even just saying that makes her tremble for a second, making everything just a little more real. Just two days ago she put Frannie on a plane. Now she doesn’t know when she’ll ever see her daughter again.

Quinn tries to maintain his hard look but his eyes flit with sympathy for just a moment and he doesn’t argue, just nods once. Almost looks like he expects it, has thought this through. 

Which surprises her in a way, implies more empathy for her situation than he’s showing. Because he is clearly doing his best to shut down all emotions, doing his best to play the hardened operative. Shows it with his next comment, the coldness in his tone. 

“I have to see it,” he says. “Make sure it’s clean.” 

Carrie scowls, knows it’s procedure yet doesn’t like it. She’s still not sure of this Quinn, what the hell is left between them. And this is something she doesn’t want him to see, knows she will be raw, completely exposed. 

Yet she needs to do it, even if this is the only way. And of anyone, she supposes at least it’s Quinn. Somewhat pathetically, he still probably knows her better than almost anyone, has seen her through a lot. Also, she’s pretty sure he’s about as pleased about the situation as she is, looks touchy and tense as he walks off to go grab a camera. 

Leaves her with only her thoughts, the question of what to say.


	3. 5.4.3

Quinn sets up the camera, wonders to himself yet again how the fuck he got into this situation, knows it’s his own fucking fault. 

From the moment he got her name, he knew this was the endgame, that she would have to disappear. And as far as he was from understanding many basic human norms, he can’t deny that she deserves at least a chance to say her piece, that Frannie should get some explanation of what happened. 

“Ready?” he asks, flicks it to record. 

Quinn sits down across the room, out of her view. Thinks he’d like to invisible right about now. But the best he can do is pretend he’s not there. 

Carrie starts to talk to the camera, talk to her daughter. And Quinn does his best to ignore what she’s saying while listening at the same time. Grounds himself, remembers to be stone. 

It’s harder than he thinks, listening to her. She has barely started, is just getting the preliminaries down. But still there is something to seeing her exposed in this way, a grieving mother, losing her kid through no real fault of her own. Especially after all the shit she went through to get back to Frannie, when she was broken in Islamabad. 

Which of course makes him think of his own kid, another episode in his life he’d like to erase. Somehow still a source of regret, no matter how much he tries to forget. 

And it all comes together in an undercurrent of emotion, starts to erodes his walls. Which is why he has to get rid of her quickly, before something foundational collapses. 

So Quinn sits there awkwardly, reminds himself that this is the only way, does his best not to feel for her. It’s the life she chose to lead, he thinks to himself. The kind of shit she always gets into. And you can’t carry something precious around in combat, it’s just too obvious a weakness. 

But as Carrie films the video Quinn can see that she tried hard, has to give her that. Made a decent go of it, certainly more than he ever managed. Seems to have changed, has softer edges. 

And then she says that she’s doing everything that she can to get back and it knocks him out of his thoughts, reminds him of his job. Quinn stands up, stops the camera. 

“What are you doing?” she asks, annoyed. 

“If you’re doing everything that you can to get back to her then you’re still alive,” he explains, thinks she will get the point.

“So?” she replies, clearly not seeing it at all.

And it’s not the time to mince words, worry about feelings. He can see that she’s still stuck in mental shock, hasn’t completely thought the situation through. Otherwise she would see it too. And right now, he needs her to get what’s going down, the hard facts of the matter. 

“So, if this falls into the wrong hands, you’re fucked,” he explains, hopes that will be enough. 

“I’m not going away forever, just until this situation is resolved,” Carrie argues, just as she would, always does. 

“How is it getting resolved?” he counters, wants her to come to the realization herself. 

“I’m going to figure out who targeted me...” she replies stubbornly. As if she really thinks she can do it, on her own, on the run. A powerful enemy possibly looking for her at every turn. An professional killer at her back and no allies to turn to.  

“And they’re going to keep come looking for you,” Quinn argues, about at the end of his patience with her. He knows this has all happened really fast for her, that for all her operations knowledge, she doesn’t understand how an assassin thinks. But there’s no time for them to argue about it anymore, for her to get it. 

“And I will fix it,” she says, as determined as ever. 

“And if they think you’re still alive they will get to you through Frannie,” he says, as directly as he can. Names the clear and awful truth, what she should have realized by now.

And finally he sees that she’s starting to get it, rationally understands. But emotionally Carrie’s still fighting it, wants to believe there’s some around the problem. Is in shock still,a state of denial. 

So he just has to do it, get it through the fog of emotion. Tell her what’s obvious to him, what she doesn’t want to see. And thankfully there’s no time to sugarcoat it, because every minute he spends here with her threatens the wall he’s built up, an effort of two years. It’s as hard a thing as he’s ever had to say to her, something she has to understand. 

“Carrie,” Quinn says, as firmly as he can, looking hard into her eyes. “If you want Frannie to be safe, you have to be dead.” 

*

She’s staring at Quinn blankly and he’s telling her that Frannie will never be safe unless she plays dead. And her first reaction is to swear at him, argue and rail. 

But Carrie freezes, suddenly sees that he’s right, on an operations level. That disappearing means leaving no trace. Even though she still doesn’t agree that there’s no other way, thinks she will get back to Frannie soon. The video can’t show any evidence of life, not if they’re going to be safe. 

Of course the hardest part is believing it could possibly be true. The facts Quinn has been trying so hard to coldly impart on her. That she could be leaving Frannie forever, that just being alive makes things dangerous for her daughter. 

The thought is so devastating Carrie feels a numb shock wash over her, everything he’s said finally coming together and freezing her in horrible realization. She looks away, tries to get a hold of her emotions, understand the magnitude of loss she’s feeling. 

“Jesus,” she mutters, shakes her head in sadness, disbelief. Can’t believe it’s true. 

“How’d you feel when you had to leave your kid?” she asks sharply, wonders if there’s anything left under this cold wall he’s built up. 

But if she was looking for understanding, she should have known better. Quinn is all business, like he wants to get her out of his hideout, out of his life. 

“Not everyone is fit to be a parent,” he replies roughly, looks at her hard. 

Carrie’s wondering if he’s only talking about himself, remembers him telling her how sad it would be to watch her fuck things up with her kid. Then remembers Kabul, Islamabad. How fucked up she had been, how scared she had been of being a mother.

Two years of parenting does not a perfect mother make, Carrie thinks. Especially if it ends up with you abandoning your kid, living an indefinite life on the run. 

But then that’s why she has to do this. This could be her only chance at letting Frannie know what happened, that she didn’t leave of her own choice, that she will love her forever. Even though she knows it won’t mean much in the long run, doesn’t make up for anything. At least her daughter will know how much she loved her, that she never meant for this to happen. 

“Let’s do this,” Quinn says crisply, presses record. Then sits back down in his seat, looks at his hands. 

Carrie takes a moment, tries to collect herself. Then faces the camera, takes a deep breath, tells herself that she is ready for this. Talks to her daughter, tries to be as honest and real as she can be.

Cracks for a moment at the same line, stops herself, has to fight the waves of emotion that suddenly crash through. Takes another breath, tries her best to steady herself, tell herself that saying the words will not necessarily make it true. 

And then tells Frannie that she didn’t make it back, that things got too dangerous. 

Which brings her to the end, to the life they had for two years, real time together. A better life. 

“I didn’t abandon you,” she tells her daughter, knows from experience it’s the only thing a child can think when a parent disappears. “I know what that feels like and I would never do that to you. You are the most important, the best thing that I have ever done. You make up for every mistake that I’ve ever made. And although you probably don’t believe it, I love you very very much.” 

She’s crying readily by the end, knows it was impossible to avoid. Turns the camera off and sits there staring, trying to comprehend what just happened. 

She tries to tell herself that Frannie will never have to see the video, that she will figure her way out of this. But it’s not enough to stem the tide, stop the flow of regretful tears, push away the fear of never seeing her again. 

So Carrie sits and stares at the table, weeping silently for her lost life, her abandoned child. Hears Quinn approach and take the camera but doesn’t look up, is still caught in the moment. 

“We have to get going,” Quinn says, sounds all business, like none of this has just happened. 

Carrie looks up, bites hard on her lip to regain a little control. 

“Jesus, Quinn,” she says angrily. “Give me a fucking minute.” 

His eyes are still stark, cold. But a little surprise registers, and she thinks she even sees a sliver of sympathy slip through. More telling is that he doesn’t argue with her, just shoots her a slightly frustrated look before walking away, giving her some space. 

She knows it’s Quinn’s way of apologizing, not much but enough for now. So Carrie tells herself to breathe, that just because she made the video doesn’t mean she’s never going to see Frannie again. Regardless of what Quinn says, she’s still convinced there’s another way. 

Because there’s always another way. And now she’s not on her own anymore, has Quinn on her side. Even this colder, harder Quinn is ever useful - technically just saved her life. Which gives her a chance at figuring it all out, getting back to her daughter. 

Carrie stifles the last of her tears, wipes her face and tells herself she’s ready. Does her best to push the rest of her emotions away, reminds herself what it’s like to be on a job. Stands and turns to go, unexpectedly catches Quinn staring at her, a concerned expression on his face. 

He recovers quickly, covers it with stoniness. But Carrie knows what she saw, is sure it’s still him. And as bad as things seem to be, as cold as Quinn tries to be, it’s still somehow reassuring that he’s here with her now, that he’s still got her back.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s silent in the car, pretty usual for them really. Carrie’s looking out the window, thinking about her fucked up situation. And Quinn hasn’t said anything since asking for the address of her storage locker, seems to be caught up in thoughts of his own. 

It doesn’t make any sense, Carrie thinks for the millionth time. Why the hell would Saul want her dead? All that shit that happened after Islamabad is long in the past now. Sure he seemed pissed off at her choice of private employer, how they left things at the CIA. But that’s not exactly shit that gets you on a kill list, not unless things have changed a fuckload in the two years she’s been gone. 

And then, even if Saul wanted her dead. Why the fuck would he send Quinn to do it? She thinks it was pretty clear how Quinn looked out for her at every turn those years they were together. And she knows Saul must have seen it - everyone else certainly did. Even obtuse her, in the end. 

Could Quinn have changed that much in two years? It’s not impossible, she thinks. He always did have a harsh, unforgiving side to him. And Saul could know better than her, especially after all this time. 

Carrie looks over, glances at Quinn now, can see he’s still doing his best to remain steel, hard and unbendable. Could he really be that cold that Saul would think he’d go through with it? It was just so unlikely. 

Because when she looks at him, all she sees is Quinn, trying his hardest not to feel his feelings. She’s seen it before, many times, to different degrees. And it explains his current hardness, his desire to quickly get her out of his life. She knows he does not want to care, also that he can’t help himself. 

Which is why she’s still alive, has a chance to escape. Carrie wonders if someone else got her name if she’d already be dead - Frannie without any explanation, Jonas with no idea what happened. 

For a moment she wonders what Jonas is doing, knows he must be flipping his shit by now. And of course she feels bad for everything, doesn’t even want to think about that day, the choices she made. Putting all of that on him, forcing him into a situation he wasn’t equipped to handle. And now she has no way of letting him know she’s okay, has to get used to the idea of everyone thinking she’s dead. 

Two years. A new life. Gone, just like that. Carrie takes a breath, still has a hard time believing it. Tells herself she will make contact with Jonas when it’s safe, at least give him some closure. Though she knows at this point it’s possible she will never really be able to talk to him again, that this is now the fucked up ending to their relatively normal time together. 

From one trip to Lebanon, straight to a manic episode in the woods, armed with a rifle. Carrie shakes her head at the memory, thinks at least she still made a valiant effort, especially if she had almost taken Quinn out. 

It’s a good thing he’d been wearing a vest, she thinks to herself. Even smirks a bit to know he considered her that dangerous, had taken full precautions. Then loses her amusement when she suddenly realizes for the first time how close it had been, thinks thank god she didn’t kill him. Because she would have seriously lost her shit to have found him dead in the woods, stalking her with no explanation. 

Carrie looks over again as Quinn turn into a parking spot at the storage facility, watches as he pulls to a stop. Thinks how unlikely it is to be here with him right now. Then gets out of the vehicle, makes another step towards a new life. 

*

Carrie’s looking through her stash, pulls out stacks of cash, bottles of lithium, an untraceable weapon. No more time for thinking, remembering, she tells herself. If this is it then she has to make sure she has what she needs to be gone a long time. To survive on her own, start up as someone else. 

She’s set Quinn to looking for spare passports, the best of the bunch. Is immersed in her own searching when he finally says something, quits his silent act. 

“You moved to Berlin, got a new job, a new guy. But still kept your fallback plan,” he comments, a certain tone in his voice. 

Like he’s accusing her of something, doesn’t believe she’s really out. Just like his little snide laugh when she suggested she might not have a fallback plan anymore. It rankles because it’s true, because even after two years of relative calm she can’t imagine living without a getaway stash. 

“So?” Carrie asks, wondering if he has a point, or if he’s just trying to get under her skin. 

“So I guess you weren’t sure your new life was going to work out,” Quinn replies, in a manner she can’t quite read. 

Carrie shakes her head, then turns to look at him. Doesn’t want to argue, have to guess at what he means, deal with his testiness. Remembers how quickly things can get personal between them, the friction that comes with every interaction. Tells herself not to fall into that trap, not to get defensive at his insinuations. 

“I found a good life here,” she replies truthfully, doesn’t care if he believes it or not. “I was happy.” 

And the thing is Carrie really means it. It had been a good life, and in a different way then she had ever experienced before. She had found herself able to be settled, calm, more content than she had ever been before in her adult life. When she was younger she had really needed the adrenaline of the job, the exhilaration of being in the middle of it all. But she meant it when she said she was done with that kind of life, that she had someone to come home to now. Two someones, a family of sorts. Love, in a way she had never experienced it before. 

And she really doesn’t want to think about any of this right now, everything she’s leaving behind. Definitely doesn’t need to justify her choices to Quinn. So she turns towards him and changes the subject, puts it back on him. 

“Where’ve you been?” she asks, a bit sharply. 

“Syria,” he replies, still looking at the passports, avoiding her eyes. 

It’s not unexpected but it still hits her in the chest, makes her quickly realize what his life has probably been since the last time she saw him. And instantly, whatever irritation she had just felt towards him for questioning her life transforms into concern, guilt. 

Two years in Syria. No wonder he’s acting as he is, Carrie thinks. And now she remembers that last phone call, figuring out what it was about hours too late. How upset she had been, how she had tried to threaten Dar Adal. 

Fuck, she thinks. It’s something she has deliberately not thought about in a long time now, part of everything she tried to put behind her. 

But now, standing here with him, possibly for the last time, Carrie realizes what she’s about to say, that he has to at least know. And it’s not the sort of thing she would usually tell him, not even something she fully admits to herself. But it’s the truth, and maybe he will hear the apology in it, understand that she didn’t just forget about him. 

“Quinn, the last two years, everywhere I went I looked for you,” she says, as honestly as she can. “I tried to find you. I never stopped thinking about you.” 

Because she really did still think about him, even here in her new life, where she tried her best to avoid her past. Random memories of Quinn would float by and she would wonder where he was, if he was still alive, if she would ever see him again. Or she’d see someone from a distance, or out of the corner of her eye and she’d have to do a doubletake, make sure it wasn’t him. 

And now here they are, caught together in a shitty situation again. Quinn lost between war and life. Her own attempt at happiness suddenly torn to bits. 

Carrie knows nothing she says will change anything that’s happened, that he will try to just shrug it off. Yet she thinks he deserves to know that he was missed, that he was never forgotten. And, despite his hard demeanour, she thinks it will still have an effect, remind him of that undefinable thing between them, that things were different once.

*

“Quinn, the last two years, everywhere I went I looked for you,” Carrie says as he refuses to meet her eyes. “I tried to find you. I never stopped thinking about you.” 

She even sounds sincere, like she actually means it. And instantly Quinn feels his innards freeze solid, his self-defense mechanisms kick in hard. 

It’s exactly what he does not want to hear, curses at himself for leading himself into this conversation. He should have just stuck with the silent routine, killing off emotions as they threatened to rise to the surface. 

But it’s like he just can’t fucking help himself, all of his self-discipline gone the moment she’s back in his life. There was no reason he had to ask about her life, question the path she chose. Except that he wanted to know if she had really managed to do it, find a way out, change her style of living, meet the right guy. Everything he could never do, exactly what he tried to ask of her two years ago. 

Fuck. Quinn thinks to himself. He really set himself up to fail. 

He supposes he never expected that she would actually say something like that to him, discuss the past at all. Thought that they could just gloss that all over with a mutual understanding of things that didn’t need to be talked about. 

But Quinn’s starting to realize that he doesn’t exactly know this Carrie, so open with her emotions, softer and more giving. Watching her make that video for Frannie had been fairly torturous for him, a part of her that he had did not want to see. And now this, for her to say she looked for him, never stopped thinking about him. 

It’s a straight up attack on his emotional wall and Quinn tells himself to hunker down, perceive it as such. Which means he needs to push it off, defend himself at all costs. Because soon she’s going to be on a train to a new life. And he’s going to let himself fall to the bottom of a dark hole, try and forget this little episode ever happened. 

“Doesn’t matter now,” he says, finally able to look her way again. Tells himself that he’s put it all away, that he just needs to get her to safety before he suffers any more structural damage. 

Thankfully Carrie gets the hint, doesn’t say anything more as he walks over, sticks the passports in the bag. Then she puts on the wig, asks him how she looks. 

Fuck, he thinks again. Bites down on the impulse to actually think about the question, reminds himself that these are not things he’s allowed to consider. 

Looks her over, tells himself that this isn’t the Carrie he knew, that there is nothing left of the little they had. That they are both different people now, on different planes of life. And his only job is to get her safely on a train, say goodbye to his favourite achilles heel before he fucks it up with her yet again. 

So Quinn does his best to keep his expression grim, his emotions in check. Tells himself that this is the only way. 

“Like someone else,” he replies, still trying to convince himself that it’s true.


	5. 5.4.5

They start walking away from her storage unit, abandoning the rest of her stuff, the rest of her life. And Carrie still thinks that this can’t possibly be it, that she hasn’t just initiated her fallback plan, committed herself to starting a life on the run. 

Because she’s never been one to run away from a problem, would always rather meet it head on, figure her way out. And if taking off means being safe but never seeing Frannie again then she’s willing to stay and take the risk. Would rather die trying to figure this out than give up her daughter, never know if she’s safe. 

Of course Quinn has a point, she should get out of town if she’s supposedly dead now. But he’s not looking at it the way she is, obviously just wants to get rid of her, move on with his life. 

Which is fair enough, she thinks. But she’s the one that has to give up her whole life, never see Frannie again. Just thinking about it now makes her nauseous, unsteady, and she suddenly has an impulse to break down, completely give up. 

It’s really happening, she tells herself. And it’s no time to fucking fall apart. She needs to figure something out right now, or live the rest of her life as a different person, always looking out for assassins. 

So Carrie tells herself to breathe, to think. And all those questions from before come back, the ones about Saul, about Quinn. It doesn’t make any sense, she thinks yet again. Has to talk this through with Quinn, make sure before she actually gets on the train. 

“Did you ever see Saul use the drop?” she asks, thinking through other ways her name could have gotten in there. 

“Carrie, come on,” Quinn says, obviously anxious just to get going, get her out of town. 

But they both know she isn’t going to stop asking until she’s satisfied, that he will eventually give in. 

“I need to know,” she says firmly, stops walking. 

“Yeah, I saw him the first time we set it up,” Quinn replies impatiently as he turns to face her. 

There it is, she thinks. The possibility. That someone else could know about their operation, switched names. 

“Not since?” she asks, just to be sure. 

“I’m deniable. No contact authorized. Let’s move,” Quinn says, starts walking again. 

“So you don’t know for certain it was Saul who put my name in the box?” she asks as she follows, thinks things through in her head. 

“Christ,” he mutters, gives her a look. 

“Do you or don’t you?” she demands. It’s fucking important, she thinks. A lot more than getting on a train right now. And Quinn is being obstinate but she knows she just has to work at him, that she can always get him to come around.

“It’s Saul’s operation, it’s all I need to know,” he says, clearly trying to end the conversation yet again.

But Carrie’s not going to give on this, especially with the stakes at hand. And if there’s any chance she can figure it out here, she is not going anywhere. 

So she pulls out the most obvious fact of all, the one that Quinn seems to be willfully ignoring. Of all the assets that Saul has in his position, why wouldn’t he have sent someone else? To send Quinn to kill her was just cruel on every front, doesn’t seem at all like something Saul would do. 

“It doesn’t make sense,” Carrie says emphatically. “I mean maybe Saul changed, maybe I pissed him off. But Saul’s smart. Sending you to kill me is not smart. It’s fucking stupid, the fact that I’m still alive proves it.” 

*

Well, Quinn thinks. He has to give her that one. It was clearly fucking stupid to send him to kill her. Obviously he had been more than mildly surprised at finding her name there. But he had said any name in the box would do. And in a way he thought maybe it was a test of his coldness, his dedication. 

One he is failing, badly. 

Part of him wanted to believe that he had really given his last fuck somewhere in Syria. That caring about shit was something of the past. And then he got her name in that box, as if to teach him some sort of abstruse life lesson, or just to fuck with his head. 

Which all lead to this moment, outside her storage locker, trying futilely to end this argument with Carrie so he can put her on a train, know that she’s safe. 

But the thing is he doesn’t ever seem to have a choice in the matter - there was just no stopping her when she got like this. And it doesn’t help that he has no immunity to it at all, that he always gives in. Though Quinn figures no one else would do any better, that Carrie somehow always fucking wins. 

But obviously he’s not going to give her the point, needs her to understand that her fucking life is in danger every minute she stays in Berlin. It doesn’t matter who put her name in the box, Quinn thinks. She just needs to get clear before someone figures out he didn’t do his job, did quite the opposite in fact. 

“You’re still a target, either way you look at it,” he replies, knows he’s losing even as he argues with her. 

“Quinn, if Saul didn’t put my name in the box then someone’s inside your operation,” Carrie says. “Any name you get after this, it’s not legitimate. Let’s test it. Take me to your drop.” 

Fuck, Quinn thinks. She’s right and they both know it. But he can deal with this later, doesn’t need her participation. Once she’s gone, he’ll be able to think clearer, get back to form. 

“No, I’ll handle it,” he says, already knowing it’s pointless. 

“I’ll go with you,” Carrie replies, just as he knew she would. 

“Get in the car, we’re taking you to the train,” he says as he turns and starts walking; frustration and anxiety crawling in his gut. 

“No,” Carrie says, matching strides with him, hollering in his ear. 

“Carrie...” he groans, remembering exactly how this goes. Every fucking time. 

Carrie keeps at it and he has to admit she’s in fine form, hasn’t lost a beat. 

“You are telling me that someone I trust more than I’ve ever trusted anyone is trying to kill me and I’m just supposed to accept that, no questions asked? Spend my life on the run, give up my daughter?” she asks fiercely, facing him with that look of determination she gets. 

“Quinn, I have to know,” she adds, demands it of him with her eyes. 

Quinn stands and looks at her, feels something breaking in him. Cracks in the foundation, spreading fast. 

Yes he wants her just to accept it, get on a train, be alive and somewhere else. Right now he doesn’t give a shit about the security of the operation, who put her name in the box. He will figure that out later, does not need her around to do so. Just needs her to get the fuck out of town and he will feel so much better about everything. 

But he knows his goals are different than hers, that he just wants her to be safe while she wants to get her life back, be able to see her kid. And it shouldn’t fucking matter to him, but it does. The ferocity of her determination, everything she’s giving up. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, Quinn thinks. This is what he is like when he’s around her. Even two years spent trying to bury himself under death and violence wasn’t enough.

Because he looks at her and he just can’t not care. And now it’s clear that it’s a physical defect that can’t be fixed, not even after two years of strict discipline, resistance training. 

Yet the hardest thing to accept is that he doesn’t really want to fix it, that he likes her as his weakness. That she makes him hate himself and have hope in himself at the same time, reaffirms that there is some humanity left in him. 

So really he lost the game before it even started, never really had a chance at all. Just stands there looking at Carrie for another long moment, concern etched in his grey eyes. 

Then finally nods his acquiescence, hopes she understands exactly how much he dislikes this, that he really does care.


	6. 5.4.6

Everything happens so fast she doesn’t even remember thinking. One second she’s watching a mom walk by with a toddler in her arms, thinking about Frannie. And then suddenly she sees a suspicious green car roll to a stop, Quinn leaving the post office, immediately ducking for cover.

Instantly Carrie slams the car into reverse, rams into the back end of the green car just as she hears the first shots, sees Quinn fall to the ground. Part of her realizes he’s been hit, but she doesn’t even have time to process any worry as her old training kicks in, the muscle memory of emergency situations. 

Quinn fires his entire clip into the driver of the car as she leaps out of the car, helps get him off the ground, into the passenger seat. Then, quickly, automatically, Carrie searches the dead man, grabs his phone and takes his photo with slightly shaky hands. 

And then before she knows it, she’s back in the car, driving away from the scene. Starting to actually process what happened, realize that Quinn really is shot, could be seriously injured. 

She looks over at him, concern starting to push through the pure adrenaline that’s fueled her so far. Because Quinn does not look good, face clenched in pain. Bleeding all over the place despite trying to put pressure on the wound with his hand.

“I should take you to a hospital,” she says, fear starting to rise in her throat as she listens to his laboured shallow breaths. 

“No, I’m okay,” Quinn replies, as he obviously would. Fucking obstinate as always, even with a bullet in him. 

“You are not okay!” she snaps at him, knows how much pain he must be in, has felt it herself. Thinks through her options if he won’t go to the hospital, knows she needs to get some real pressure on his wound soon, before he bleeds out next to her.

“We should pull over,” she says, trying to push the panic away, tell herself that Quinn’s going to be alright despite how things are looking at the moment. 

“No, they’ll be coming back to get him,” he argues, somehow thinking it all through despite the hole in his side, the shock that must be setting in. 

“Who was that?” Carrie asks, still unsure of what the fuck just happened, too caught up in everything to think about any of it yet.

“Whoever wants you dead wants me dead,” Quinn replies with a groan. “We have to get you to the train station.” 

“No!” Carrie fires back, sure that he can’t be fucking serious. As if she could just get on a train right now. And what, leave him bleeding alone in the car? 

“Your photo’s in the drop, you’ll have your cover. You can go,” he says, still trying to play it off like he’s fine, not fooling her at all. 

It’s the kind of thing that makes her want to kiss him and kill him at the same time. Such a Quinn thing to do. Trying to offer his life for her safety, all the while pretending he doesn’t care. 

Well, she does care, Carrie thinks. He’s in trouble, needs her help. And there is no fucking way she is going to let him die on her after just finding him again. 

“I am not leaving you,” she says, as emphatically as she can. “I’m not.” 

*

“I am not leaving you,” Carrie says in a tone that says it’s final. “I’m not.”

Quinn turns and looks at her, feels a myriad of things at once. But mostly he thinks fuck, she somehow always knows exactly what to say to him, his every weakness. 

He wants her to get on a train, get as far from Berlin as possible. Use the time he’s bought her to completely disappear, start a new life, hopefully learn to live without her daughter. It’s all he wanted, all along. Like a fucking mantra. Get her to safety, then get on with his life. 

It was the best fit for his plans, required the least involvement with her. Would have allowed him to go back to who he is without her, the coldness of his current existence. 

But now he’s got a fucking bullet hole in him and Carrie’s no less stubborn than she ever was. Keeps looking at him with eyes full of worry, so much so that he has to look out the window, try to harden up. 

It’s fucking impossible with her, Quinn thinks to himself. One day and it’s already a shitshow, his armour falling apart. And it doesn’t help that he’s bleeding a lot, in an immense amount of pain, starting to feel a little light-headed. 

Because although most of him wants Carrie gone, holed up somewhere safe, there is still a selfish, deeply-buried sliver that wants exactly this. He doesn’t have much left in the world, Quinn thinks. So it means something to hear her say it. And especially so surely, definitively. 

It’s that thing that drives him crazy about her, in both directions at once. Her determination, that spirit that refuses to die. It’s frustrating, exhausting. But it’s also inspiring, incredible. 

So when she uses it on him, Quinn has no chance. No matter his own will, he hasn’t won one on her yet. And if he’s being honest with himself, it’s because he doesn’t want to. 

Another rush of pain passes over him, and he groans again, hunkers down in the seat. It’s a good thing she’s there, he admits to himself. Because he’s starting to feel like shit, is starting to suspect that things could be pretty bad. 

Carrie looks over, worry scored in her eyes. 

“You’re gonna be okay, Quinn,” she says, reaches out to put her hand on his shoulder. 

And he thinks, no, he’s not. Everything’s gone to shit, his every plan for her, for him. His carefully constructed coldness deconstructed in less than a day. 

Quinn has not been this guy in what feels like forever to him. Two years in Syria equal to about ten anywhere else, he figures. So convinced he was done with any other existence, that death was all he ever was, would be again. Even thought he had a realistic shot at this, that he could see her, let her go, come away clean. 

But obviously whatever it is in her that brings this out in him is stronger than he remembered, or he’s weaker than he thought. Because Quinn finds himself wanting this, her concern, her touch. 

It’s so unlike him Quinn has a hard time processing it even now. He’s been so alone, enclosed in his personal shell, closer to death than life. So far gone he thought he didn’t want back. 

And then one day, one job, and it all comes flooding back. Two years in the deepest shit. Yet Carrie somehow remains his tether to humanity, even after all this time.


	7. 5.4.7

Carrie looks over at Quinn, puts her hand on his shoulder, not sure if it’s to reassure her or him. 

He’s hunched over in the seat, face covered in cold sweat, blood everywhere. His eyes are closed, but she can tell he’s still with her, can see him silently groaning, trying to muffle the pain. 

She gives him a little shake, needs him to stay conscious. They’re closing in on his hideout and she’s going to need his assistance in getting him inside, dealing with the wound. 

“Quinn, I need you stay awake for me,” she says sharply, tries to stir him to attention. 

He snaps to, opens his eyes obediently and she takes it as a poor sign. If Quinn’s not arguing with her he must be pretty bad off, she thinks. Otherwise he’d still be telling her to get on a train, saying he’s fine. 

But at least he’s alert as they finally pull into the hideout, able to help her as she clamours around, helps him out of the car. 

Arms around him, Carrie supports him as he stumbles along, grunts in pain. He almost falls, but she catches his weight, doesn’t let him go. Then she finally gets him to the bed, where she checks his back, sees a lot of blood and an exit wound.

“Good, it went through,” Quinn grunts, while she’s thinking of everything a bullet could have hit going through him. It’s a lot more than a flesh wound, Carrie realizes in half panic. There could be some serious damage in there. 

“It could have hit an artery,” she says, really thinks he needs a doctor, more than she can do. She should have taken him to a hospital, despite his objections, she thinks again. But also knows why he’s refusing, that he will not give in on this.

“I’d have bled out by now,” he replies, not really making her feel any better about the situation. But now that they’re here, there’s nothing she can do except get some drugs into him, wrap him up, hope for the best. 

“We need to get some morphine into you,” she says, looking at the expression in his face, knows it has to be pretty fucking bad. 

Quinn tells her there’s a medical kit on the bench and Carrie hurries to grab it as she listens to him gasp in pain, breathe in shallow laboured breaths. She’s filling the syringe when he lets out a little moan that hits her in the gut, tells her she’s about to lose him. 

“Quinn, you with me?” she asks.

He opens his eyes again, and Carrie again sees all the pain he doesn’t want to admit to. Knows he’s really doing badly if he’s letting her see it, has a slightly desperate look in his eyes. 

So she deals with that first, shoots the morphine in his hip, as he grunts in pain. Then opens up the pads, tells him they need to put some pressure on his wounds. 

She tries to ignore the amount of blood coming from him, puts the pad over his wound and helps him pull himself back up to sitting. He’s holding the pads now, putting pressure on and she’s pulling to get the bandage around when Quinn starts to slip, drops to her shoulder with another moan. 

By the time Carrie finally gets the bandage wrapped tight, he’s passed out on her shoulder, his blood-splattered arm wrapped around her tight. She feels him nestle into her, tells herself it’s just the morphine kicking in, the shock he’s just been through. 

But she also knows Quinn, that he wouldn’t drop these walls for anyone else, not in any situation. And she remembers all those ways he looked out for her, how he was always there for her. An almost sweet Quinn. Not that she would ever think of him like that. But he had his moments. 

And now he’s nested in the crook of her shoulder, still hanging onto her tightly. Carrie would like to get him out of his bloody clothing, but it’ll be a lot easier with his help. And part of her doesn’t want to disturb him yet, wants to let him have a content moment. 

She thinks to herself how strange it is to be sitting here, holding a vulnerable Quinn after the day they just had. And she knows he will blame it on the morphine, but Carrie knows it’s not only that, that this is what he needs. It’s something he would never allow himself, except in this precise circumstance, his every wall knocked down by pain and medication. He would never even admit to the want, probably not even to himself. 

But right now, it’s a meeting of moments, two years of absence held tight between them. Quinn stirs, settles into her, lets himself have the comfort in being taken care of. And for once, she can give him this, let him know that she won’t leave him. Holds onto him tightly, prays that he’s going to be okay. 

*

Quinn comes to with a most unfamiliar feeling of comfort, safety. For a moment he can’t figure out where he is, what is going on. And then he remembers holding the dressings, Carrie wrapping them tight, the pressure making him pass out. 

Still not quite conscious, Quinn wonders how long he was out. Then suddenly freezes with the realization that he’s still tucked into Carrie’s shoulder, holding her tight. 

Even more absurdly, she’s wrapped her arm around him too, is absently rubbing his back with her thumb. Quinn can feel it now that the pain has dulled from the hole in his side, the morphine finally getting some traction. 

And despite the throbbing still present throughout his body, it feels like nothing else. Total release, all of his flaws out in the open, an invitation to hurt him. But also everything he’s wanted, yet would never admit to. 

It’s all so confounding Quinn tries to sit up, resists the urge to just settle up against her, let her take care of him. But his attempt ends up being little more than a weak movement, a pathetic moan. At first he wonders if the sound came from him, then realizes it’s the only option. Which then makes him realize that the morphine has only dulled the pain so far, that he is also weak with shock and Carrie’s proximity. 

And now Quinn remembers making some pretty pitiful noises earlier, wonders what the hell has gotten into him. Not that he wasn’t in pain, as bad as he’s experienced in a long time. But he has better self-control than that, has standards he expects to meet. His stoicism is his only armour. And rarely does he let it fall even in the most dire of circumstances. 

Which these aren’t, not yet. Not ideal circumstances by any stretch of the imagination. But he’s alive, and Carrie’s here. And somehow it is both heaven and hell, the thing he wants so badly, the thing he tries to resist. So he had let it go, slipped out of his need to be steel. 

Quinn tells himself it’s just the morphine that let him give in. But he knows that really, she’s the drug he can’t fucking resist. Still, whatever it is, he’s in pain, vulnerable. So he had himself have it, her comfort, her concern. And now he’s not sure he ever wants to give it back.

Carrie finally notices he’s conscious, tells him she needs to get him out of his clothes. 

And it’s all so unlikely. To wake up in Carrie’s arms, in this situation. He would laugh, make a baited comment if he had the energy. But everything’s concentrated on pure survival now, he has nothing to spare. 

Quinn does his best to sit up, braces himself with one arm, tells himself to fucking breathe. The morphine is doing it’s job but he’s still cold with sweat, weak, in shock. 

He manages to take off half the jacket before Carrie puts her hand on his shoulder to stop him, pulls him toward her, gently peels the rest of it off. Then, slowly, she tugs his bloody t-shirt up over his head as he lifts his arms obediently for her as asked, manages to only gasp in pain minimally. 

Shirt off, morphine kicking in hard, Quinn looks at Carrie, can’t quite believe this is really happening. But there she is, looking him over with a very worried eye.

“Lie down, Quinn,” she says, and it sounds like a fantastic idea, just what he needs. 

She hovers over him, all concern, as he lowers himself painfully to the mattress, then tucks the blanket up over him, gently wipes the sweat away from his forehead. And this time Quinn doesn’t resist the electricity of the feeling, doesn’t try to tell himself he doesn’t fucking love it. 

“I think I might like you drugged up,” Carrie says with the barest of smiles. “You’re not so difficult.” 

Drugged up me knows he fucking likes you, Quinn muses to himself. Difficult or not. 

Lying there, somewhere between levels of consciousness, Quinn thinks to himself yet again that she’s different now. He’s surprised she seems so genuinely concerned about him after all this time, after she’d left the Agency behind, after he’d run off without a word. He hadn’t predicted that. But then again she was just ultimately unpredictable, he remembers. 

Carrie’s different, but the same, Quinn thinks. Just as he is.

She’s more open, a bit softer. Yet just as fucking determined, infuriating. And he’s closed himself off, shut off all non-essential instincts. But he obviously still has the same weakness, his one fatal flaw. 

You fell asleep on her shoulder, Quinn thinks to himself. Fucking hell. 

Through dimmed eyes, he watches as Carrie gets cleaned up, washes his blood off her for the second time of the day. And he wonders how this all happened, what fate is trying to say to him. 

Really he’s been wondering that since sitting in outside the post office, looking at her name. Right then he knew it was a test, even thought he had the right answer. Thought he could do it, get her out without any personal involvement. 

And now here he is, bullet to the side, both their lives at risk. Fuck, Carrie, Quinn thinks. This is what life is like when you’re in it. 

But as he passes out again Quinn has to admit to himself that he’s missed it, that he’s missed her. That he’s glad to be with her, regardless of any trouble to come. 

*

Quinn’s finally passed out again, still wearing a grimace of pain even in his sleep. Carrie watches him breathe as she wipes his blood off of her yet again, thinks to herself he should be in a hospital, not on a dingy cot in a Berlin dungeon. 

But she knows he won’t go, doesn’t want to attract any attention. Whoever ordered the hit will be looking for any survivors at hospitals, in police files. And maybe realize that he’s not the only one who’s still alive, come looking for them both. 

Carrie wonders if he really thought refusing to go to the hospital was going to lead to her getting on a train. That she would really leave him in the parking lot of the train station bleeding to death. 

At least he’s consistent, she thinks. About hospitals. And about her. 

Carrie sighs, tells herself that he’s stubborn as fuck, will survive this. Tries to tell herself the same thing, that she will get through this. 

It’s barely been a week since Otto insisted on going to Lebanon, since she had a perfectly normal life. Jonas, Frannie, a mostly nine to five job. The most drama she had to deal with was Laura Sutton accusing her of still being CIA. 

And now she’s on the run, in hiding. Supposedly dead, holed up with another half-dead operative who also now has a target on his back. 

Carrie shakes her head, takes a breath. Tells herself she’s got this; that they are both going to be fine. Suddenly remembers all the way back to his hospital room Gettysburg, thinks that may have been the first time she realized he was likable after all. 

She smiles to herself at the memory, finishes wiping her hands off and remembers about the phone. Takes it out, tells herself it’s time to figure out what the hell is going on. 

*

Quinn comes to again, tries to blink away the morphine haze in his eyes before remembering what happened, where he is. 

He sees that Carrie’s just finished washing up, thinks he must not have been out for too long. Then she pulls out the cell phone she grabbed at the scene, looks at the picture she took of their assailant. 

It had been quick thinking on her part to have gotten the phone and the picture in the middle of all the action. He had seen the instinct kick into her instantly, watched as she reacted exactly as needed. Just like riding a bike, he thinks to himself. She will never just be a civilian. 

Carrie tells him there’s only one number saved to the memory of the phone and he tells her to call it. 

She dials and listens, gets a look on her face that he’s not quite able to read. 

“What happened?” he asks after she hangs up the phone, stares at it contemplatively. 

Carrie looks at him, clearly thinking hard. 

“I’m not sure,” she says, doesn’t explain any further. 

“Come on, Carrie,’ Quinn mutters. “Tell me what it was.” 

But Carrie just gives him a stern look, shakes her head. 

“You have more important things to worry about,” she says, walking over, looking down at him. “Rest, Quinn.” 

He looks at her, tries not to waver. But he already knows that he’s a lost cause, that there never was any hope for him. 

Because Carrie’s got that look that says she’s back in the game, that shit is on. And he remembers her exactly, all those things he spent two years trying to forget. Knows if someone can figure it out, it’s Carrie. But this is exactly what he was trying to avoid, just wanted the easy, safe solution of getting her to disappear. Keep her out of the picture completely. 

And yet here he is, looking up at the worry in her face and trying to convince himself he doesn’t want this. Again Quinn tells himself it’s the drugs, the pain - that he feels like shit, knows his situation is not good. But no matter how much he wants her gone for her own safety, he still has to admit that part of him is really fucking glad that she is there, knows he would never think that about anyone else. 

As if to accentuate the point to him, Carrie reaches down, puts her hand on his bare chest. “Sleep, Quinn,” she says softly. “I need you to get better.” 

And this time he doesn’t argue, closes his eyes, falls asleep under the ghost of her touch.


	8. 5.5.1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pre 5.5 scene...

She’s been up all night, her mind full of questions, her chest full of worry. Compulsively checking on Quinn to make sure he’s still breathing, not bleeding too much. All the while trying to figure out who the voice on the other side of the phone had been, if the thought in her head was at all possible. 

Carrie walks over to the bed again, sits next to Quinn, waits to see if he stirs. But he seems to be sleeping comfortably for the moment, looks so peaceful in rest she smiles to herself a little. So deadly, yet so innocent, she thinks. And always so conflicted, with that tenderness he tries to bury, the steel facade he hides behind. 

She wonders if it’s just the morphine that’s put him out, makes him look at ease. Wants to know how concerned she should be about him, knows Quinn won’t tell her the truth on the matter. And that he will refuse to go to the hospital even if it’s bad, because he doesn’t want to blow her cover. 

The real problem is Quinn’s right, that taking him to the hospital would quickly nullify everything he’s just done for her, the time he’s bought her. 

Not ideal, Carrie thinks tiredly. But if it comes down to it, she will make him go. Use her considerable power of persuasion over him to ensure that he gets the care he needs. Even if she has to shoot him again, or knock him out and call the ambulance. 

An unexpected tear escapes as Carrie looks at Quinn and lets her worries flow. She thinks he will be fine, mostly because he has to be. But it’s a little too much, to have just found him again, in such a fucked up circumstance. After two years of wondering what happened to him, not even knowing if he was still alive. 

Carrie shakes her head at the thought, looks down again at him, is still a bit surprised at how much he suddenly means to her. But she supposes years of wondering, unconsciously looking for him almost ended in losing him again in the flash of an eye. That she can’t help but worry about him right now, injured and alone in his lair. 

Yet she also remembers back to that day in Islamabad, their standoff on the street, how desperate she was to get him out alive. And for a moment it’s so vivid, talking to him on the phone, standing on top of his bomb. She had been willing to do whatever it took that day, anything to bring him home. 

And then he came home for her and ran off just as quickly. Just when everything around her shattered and she needed him the most.

So now Carrie thinks maybe he’s always meant this much to her, that she just never let herself care about him until things got desperate. Absently runs her hand through his fever-soaked hair a few times, then catches herself in the act and makes herself stop, relieved that he wasn’t awake for the gesture. 

It’s all so crazy, Carrie thinks to herself. Less than a day ago she woke up tied to this same bed, worried that Quinn was going to harm her. He had tried his best to play it cold, she thinks, even had her going for a moment. But of course really he’d saved her life yet again, bought her as much time as he could. Then tried to convince her to leave on a train while he bled to death alone. 

And now he looks so vulnerable, all that hardness fallen away. It hadn’t exactly taken long either, just a single day, more than enough to wear through his defenses. She gets to see it all with him, Carrie thinks to herself. Knows she might be the only one, thinks she likes it that way.

Then, as if on cue, Quinn makes a low moaning sound as he shifts in his sleep and she sees his eyes flutter open dazedly a few times, before finally settling on her.

And it’s so rare to see him so raw, exposed, makes her heart break a little thinking of what he’s been through in the last two years, the pain he’s suffering now. Makes her realize again that she almost lost him again the day she found him, how fucking sad she would be if that had happened. 

*

Quinn comes to making a pathetic groaning noise, but the fire lacing throughout his body makes it impossible to contain the sound, his every nerve tense with pain. Then he hears himself moan again, as if from a far distance, his eyelids fluttering as he tries to gain purchase on consciousness. 

Finally his eyes slowly focus on Carrie, see that she’s giving him such a tender look Quinn’s sure something must be seriously wrong - other than the fact that he feels like shit, thinks he’s still bleeding a lot. 

But she just gives him a little smile as she sees he’s awake, makes him wonder what the hell has gotten into her. 

“I’ll go get you another shot,” she says, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. 

It sounds like a great idea to him; exactly what he needs to get through the night while trying to convince himself that he’ll feel better by morning, that the weakness he’s experiencing won’t last. Because right now Quinn feels nothing but the burn of every nerve ending, a cold sweat covering his entire body.

Carrie comes back with the needle, leans over and gently jabs it into his hip. Then sits down next to him, idly worrying a pattern into his bicep as he waits for the relief to arrive. Gritting his teeth to resist making pitiful noises, though a few gasps still slip through, make her look at him, all concern. 

Quinn thinks about all the ways this situation is wrong, fucked up. She shouldn’t even be here listening to him moan, giving a shit about his sorry ass. Is in danger every minute she’s in Berlin, should be anywhere but here, dealing with a bullet hole in his side. 

And then just the way she’s been, softer, kinder. Yet still Carrie, all fire and determination, fucking unstoppable. It’s pretty much his worst nightmare and best dream rolled into one, everything he tried to not hope for back then, on their first almost go around.

Right then Carrie looks at him with so much genuine concern, Quinn thinks he can’t take it anymore. Knows he doesn’t deserve it, that he’s failed the same test yet again. How many times can you fuck this up? he asks himself. He had only one job, and still somehow she convinced him to let her stay, all against his best judgement.

And now here she is, still in Berlin, worrying about him when she should be running for her life. Somehow doesn’t see that the hole in him is really what he deserves, what comes of living a life in the dark. That he doesn’t deserve any compassion, especially not hers. 

Finally the morphine settles in and Quinn stops writhing in pain, now only feels the soothing movement of Carries thumb on his skin, thinks he’s never felt so cared for. It feels so foreign to give himself up to any vulnerability, to let anyone in this close. So when Carrie reaches to lift up his shirt he still automatically tries to slap her hand away, tries to hide any evidence. But Carrie just shakes her head at him, then firmly takes his hand in hers, pulls his shirt aside with her other hand. 

“I need to change the bandages,” she says, worry clear in her voice. “You should really be in a hospital, Quinn.” 

He shakes his head at the hospital comment, thinks she can’t possibly mean it. She knows the chance she would be taking, that it’s not something he would ever allow. 

“No hospital, Carrie,” he says, as seriously as he can. “Promise me.” 

Carrie gives him that look that says nice try, but you’ve lost already. Eyebrows up, a yeah right shake of her head. 

“If you need to go to the hospital, you’ll go,” Carrie says in a tone that invites no arguing. “I’ll take my chances.” 

“Carrie,” he argues, now weak with fear. “You can’t do that.” 

“Quinn, relax,” she says, her thumb now on his bare chest. “I won’t do it unless I have to, but I’m not going to lose you to this.” 

It makes him feel shitty yet soothed that she would say this to him, really mean it too. Reminds him again that this new Carrie has dulled her edges, is a little warmer. And of course his well-practiced coldness was no match for her at all, to the point where he doesn’t even argue about letting her change the dressings, is willing to accept that much. Partly because he knows he won’t win that fight against her, mostly because he thinks he doesn’t want to. 

Carrie helps him into a sitting position, her arm wrapped firmly around his back.Then leans him into her shoulder where he docilely rests his head against her, remembers exactly how comfortable, safe it had felt earlier. 

He wouldn’t want anyone else to do this for him but it’s Carrie, and he can’t deny how good it feels to surrender to her touch, let her unwind the soaked bandages, wash the blood off him gently with some antiseptic soap, warm water. And again he’s surprised at the softness of her actions, her ability to hold him together and wrap him up all at once. 

When she’s done Quinn tells himself he can’t doze on her shoulder forever - that he can’t believe he’s doing it at all. Again. But he’s also starting to feel worse than ever, even through the morphine. So he lets himself sink into it for another moment longer, wonders how something that feels so good can be such a bad idea. 

Carrie indulges him for awhile, rubs his back as he savours her closeness. Then eventually tells him that he should sleep, helps him lie back down slowly. 

“You’re still bleeding a lot,” she says with a sigh. “I’m really worried about you, Quinn.” 

Quinn tries to pull himself together, remember that he’s supposed to be the one taking care of her, not the other way around. That his goal is to get her out of Berlin as quickly as possible, whether he’s dying or not.

So he takes a few shallow breaths, gathers his strength, gives it all to the lie he’s about to tell. Looks at Carrie with feverish eyes, tries to focus on what’s important here. 

“I’m okay,” he says, as convincingly as he can. “I’ll be fine.” 

Carrie obviously doesn’t believe him but also doesn’t argue. Just gives him a doubtful look, a soft smile. 

“You’d better be,” she says with just the slightest waver in her voice. Then puts her hand on his bare chest, holds his heart until he finally sleeps.


	9. 5.5.2

Carrie startles easily out of a light sleep with the first glint of morning, finds she’s dozed off in a chair next to Quinn’s bed after watching him sleep for much of the night. 

She’s been so worried all night it’s a flood of relief to see that he’s still breathing, resting soundly, doesn’t seem to be in pain. And for a moment Carrie thinks how he looks so precious in his sleep, then can’t believe she’s even having the thought. Wonders what’s gotten into her, if it’s only because Quinn’s hurting that she’s suddenly finding him so endearing.

Or is it everything about him coming back to her, after two years gone? And this window of openness in him, a crack in his hard shell. 

Maybe she’s just able to appreciate it more now, Carrie thinks. Ironically because he had been trying to be so cold towards her, pretending to be the bad guy he thinks he is. Yet all the while trying to protect her in the only way he knows. He tries so hard to fight it, she thinks. But he has only ever done his best for her, always put her first. 

Quinn’s eyes flit open as she’s watching him, catching her in the act. He gives her a half-awake blink and Carrie shrugs, silently admits she was watching him sleep. Then turns to bring him some water, only to see that he’s already fallen back under again. 

Carrie puts the water down, shakes him gently on the shoulder. Thinks it takes longer than it should to rouse him, that he’s having trouble finding consciousness. 

Fuck, she does not like to worry about him, Carrie thinks. Knows he is prone to noble gestures, has self-sacrificing tendencies. 

But then Quinn gamely sits up, sips at the water. Emits only a silent gasp or two, then looks at her with a grimace on his face. 

“You okay?” he asks through an obvious spasm of pain. And she has to laugh, gives him a ‘are you serious’ look.

Quinn tries to smirk, doesn’t quite make it. 

“Really, I’m alright,” he says, manages to make it sound half-convincing. 

“Bullshit, Quinn,” she replies kindly. “Don’t lie to me.” 

He shakes his head, gives her a stern look. 

“Don’t worry about me, Carrie,” he says. “You should really get out of town.” 

She wonders how many times he’s going to say this to her, thinks he can’t possibly believe she’d leave him here in this state. Both their lives in danger, assassins seemingly everywhere. 

“Jesus, Quinn, how many times do I have to tell you?” she says a bit sharper than she means to. “I’m not leaving you. I have to figure this out, ID this guy. And then we can get you to a hospital and I can get my life back.” 

“Fuck, Carrie,” Quinn mutters tiredly. “You can’t be running around Berlin when you’re supposed to be dead.” 

“Well you’re not in any shape to do any running and I’m not going anywhere until I find out who put my name in that drop. We need to find out who this guy is,” she replies, taking the phone out yet again. 

“Fuck,” Quinn mutters again. “What are you going to do?” 

It’s a good question, Carrie thinks. She doesn’t have any official connections to take advantage of anymore, doesn’t even know who thinks she’s dead. Otto might help, but even if he can’t she knows she will come up with something. She always does, is resourceful in exactly that way. 

“I have a couple of possibilities,” she says, not sure if it’s true of not. What she knows is she’s not going to let it go, not without trying to solve it. 

Quinn gives her a doubtful look, and she can tell what he’s thinking. That she can’t possibly go around asking for favours right now, that she’s known to be a hot commodity. A lot of people are looking for her and anyone could betray her, let it out that she’s still alive. 

But she has to at least try, reach out to the few contacts she has left. Put a name to this shooter, find out who is trying to kill her. Despite any reservations Quinn might have, she’s okay with the risks involved. 

And right then Quinn exhales a frustrated breath, lets out a low groan. Gives her a look that’s half defeat, half hesitation. 

“I have an contact,” he says, still clearly unsure if he wants to share. Stalls for another moment until she gives him a pointed look, tilts her head to make him get to the point. 

“Spill it, or I’ll go find my own source,” she says, knows it will get him going. 

Quinn shakes his head, mutters a muffled fuck. 

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he says. 

*

Carrie’s looking at him expectantly, threatening to just go run around Berlin with no real plan. And of course she’s both frustrating and right, as usual. If they can identify the shooter it will go a long way towards finding out who put her name in that box, maybe set her free from all this. 

Still of course Quinn can’t help but think it would be so much better, easier, cleaner if she just got on that train. If he could do this instead, put himself out there while she stayed safe behind the scenes. 

But like Carrie would ever do that, even if he didn’t have a bleeding hole in his side. 

So he doesn’t have much choice, yet is still reluctant to send Carrie to his one asset in Berlin. Knows he won’t ever hear the end of it if he ever sees Astrid again. 

But she’s their best shot, someone he trusts. 

“Astrid’s here in Berlin,” Quinn finally says. “Maybe she can ID our guy.” 

Carrie gives him a look he can’t quite read, irritated yet bemused. 

“She really doesn’t like me,” she replies, a certain gleam in her eyes. 

That gets a pained laugh out of him, makes him think no, no she doesn’t. Astrid makes it clear in her own way, never fails to take a stab at him about his ‘girlfriend’ when she can. So he can only imagine what it’s like when the two of them talk to each other, neither side willing to give. 

“Tell her it’s for me,” he says, knows it’s their only shot. Astrid is not about to do any favours for Carrie, that much he’s sure of. But she’s never failed to come through for him, has always liked him more than enough. 

Carrie arches her eyebrow at him, gives him a suspicious look. 

“You think it’ll be enough?” she asks. 

Quinn thinks it had better be, that he’s not letting her take this risk for nothing. Not that he could stop her anyway, ever tell her what to do. And this is their best chance at getting some intel, what she’s always been good at. 

“I really fucking hope so,” he mutters in reply. Is fairly sure Astrid will do it, regardless of her dislike of Carrie - wouldn’t send Carrie there if he thought otherwise. 

Because Quinn’s over pretending that he doesn’t have a huge anxiety about her being out in the open, about being in the city at all. His ability to play it cold with her has been completely compromised by his injury, her proximity, the danger she’s in. And now all he can think of are all the people that are looking for her, assassins around every corner. 

Of course, he thinks to himself. Count on Carrie to start a new normal life only to become the most sought after intelligence asset in Berlin, the target of a high stakes hit. 

And now he’s incapacitated, feels a lot worse than he’s letting on. Which means he both can’t help her and has become a liability, a weak link. But at least the discussion has kept her occupied, distracted her enough that she hasn’t checked on his wounds again. Which is a good thing because he thinks things are getting worse, feels the fire starting to radiate in him.

So Quinn tells Carrie where to find Astrid, thinks at least this will give him time to self-assess his situation, see how bad things really are. Then lays there anxiously as she gets ready, puts on the ridiculous wig. Tries to swallow his worry as he watches her walk out the door, tells himself she will be back soon.


	10. 5.5.3

Carrie’s been gone for awhile, what seems like an eternity. Quinn lays in the bed thinking of everything that could have gone wrong, while trying to gather the strength to get up, take a piss, assess the damage. 

He feels like his mind working in overdrive is what’s making him sweat excessively, tries not to think about the other option - that infection’s already set in. But Quinn’s been in it long enough to see a lot of wounds go bad. So there’s only so long he can ignore the thought, blindly hope that he isn’t as fucked up as he feels. 

By the time he’s managed to push himself to sitting, Quinn’s gone through every possibility of disaster at least three times, wonders how long to give it before he attempts to go find her. 

Not that he’d get very far considering how weak he feels. But he would still try, at least go to Astrid’s, see if Carrie had even made it there. 

Finally Quinn pushes himself to his feet, takes a moment to steady himself before starting the slow shuffle to the toilet. Manages to make it half the distance and pick up his gun along the way, feels better just with the heft of the weapon in his hand. But then the bullet wound starts screaming at him and he’s almost doubled-over in pain by the time he makes it to the john, has to steady himself for awhile before managing to relieve himself. 

Mission number one accomplished, he takes a long break, leaning against a wall for support. Thinks to himself he’s really fucked it up this time - is really not feeling so good, and a hospital is out of the question. 

Quinn takes a deep breath, gathers his strength again. Makes the slow agonizing trek over to the mirror, grabs a smaller mirror along the way to help with the process. 

Standing at the mirror he starts by slowly shrugging his blood-covered shirt off on his injured side, wincing as every movement sends a sharp throbbing pain throughout his body. He wavers slightly, has to catch himself against the table for another moment before managing to peel off the blood soaked bandages, the soppy medical dressing covering the wound. Grimaces in pain again as he pulls the wet pad off and feels another surge of searing heat press through his torso. Picks up the little mirror, angles it so he can examine the exit wound. 

It looks extremely angry and bloody, likely already infected. Quinn groans inwardly at the sight, then feels a wave of weakness flood through him at the effort of it all. He leans against the table, takes a few pained breaths as the fever sweat drips off his forehead. Thinks how he’s glad to have checked it out for himself first; knows he’s going to have to try to hide it if Carrie ever makes it back. 

Almost exactly on cue, he hears the door rattle, the lock turning. Which either means Carrie’s finally back or something’s gone to shit, his hideout compromised. 

Quinn picks up his gun, wipes the sweat off his forehead as he pulls his shirt back on, hoping to hide the wound. Then he quietly steps into position, barely able support his own weight, sweating like crazy and covered in pain. Has to hold onto a metal beam for support, as he aims the gun into the entryway, in case it isn’t Carrie. 

He’s holding his breath as she walks into the room, turns and gives him an appraising look. 

“He rises,” she says with a little glad smile and a nod, in a way that is so Carrie it makes a little dent in him.

Quinn breathes a silent sigh of relief, thanks a god he doesn’t really believe in. All of his anxieties of her being captured and killed suddenly gone - at least for the moment.

“You were gone a long time,” he comments, wonders if something went wrong. 

“Apparently Astrid likes to sleep in,” Carrie replies. “I waited for almost an hour.” 

She walks into the other room, unties her hair and puts her bag down. Quinn follows, does his best to maintain form, stay upright and functional. 

“Was she able to ID our guy?” he asks. Walks up and stands beside her, puts the gun down. 

“Not off the top of her head,” Carrie replies. “But she said she’d do some looking. For your sake.” 

Quinn thinks to himself how talking to Carrie about Astrid is something he never thought he’d be doing, that the mere fact they know about each other is already unlikely in the extreme. And yet part of him hopes that Carrie knows exactly why Astrid dislikes her, is so territorial about him. 

“She likes me,” Quinn says. “What can I say.” 

“Her one redeeming quality as far as I can tell,” Carrie replies, in a tone that expresses exactly what she thinks of all of Astrid’s other qualities. 

Quinn almost laughs aloud thinking about Astrid and Carrie talking to each other, can only imagine the level of disdain on both sides. Then groans loudly and has to catch himself on the table as a spasm of pain shoots through him, weakens him at the knees. 

Instantly Carrie’s hands are all over him, on his shoulders, pressed against the bare skin of his neck. And he thinks fuck, he has to stay strong, resist the desire to fall into her touch. 

“Jesus Quinn, you’re burning up,” she says, one hand still on his neck, the other running down his back. 

“I’m fine,” he lies, knows she isn’t going to buy it. 

“No, you are not,” Carrie replies, turning to look at him, grabbing him under the shoulder. 

And then he knows he’s outed, that Carrie’s about to take over. Thinks how he didn’t want to get her involved in this, that there’s not a hell of a lot she can do for him now. But then again it is Carrie, full of semi-magical abilities, endless determination. 

*

“I’m fine,” Quinn says, still trying to play his role. 

And Carrie thinks fuck. He is really not fine at all, is shaky and hot beneath her hands. Has probably been faking good all along, the willful fucker that he is. 

“No you are not,” she says, turns to look at him with a worried eye. 

She grabs him under the shoulder, steadies him as he moves towards the bed, almost going down as he stumbles. She manages to hold him up with a hand on his chest, then lower him into the bed gently, until he’s curled up in pain, his expression making her innards crawl. 

“Let me see,” she says, as Quinn still tries to squirm, resist. 

“No,” he gasps, in that way that makes her scared. She knows it must be really bad if he’s expressing this much pain, exposing weakness. 

“Let me see,” she repeats, feels him relent under her touch. 

Carrie lifts his shirt, ominously already soaked in blood. Sees that the wound is a mess, dark and bloody, probably infected. 

“That does not look good,” she says, worry really starting to build. 

“I’m first stage septic,” Quinn mutters. “Fuck me.” 

Carrie thinks it’s pretty ominous if Quinn’s admitting that it’s bad, realizes she’s quickly running out of options. 

“Tell me what to do,” she says, wonders if he has any bright ideas, tricks up his sleeve. 

But when Quinn suggests armed robbery, blinks at her with feverish eyes Carrie knows it’s time to pull out the last card she has, the one thing short of taking him to a hospital. Because she doesn’t want to have that argument yet, knows it will be a spectacular one if it comes to it. 

It’s not like she’s exactly looking forward to this option either though, has been avoiding calling Jonas for more than one reason. How they left things, the shit she said to him, both of them running off pissed off. And up until now she’d still been thinking she could just fix it all, set it back to normal before having to deal with him again. But now there’s no choice, Quinn needs help now and she knows Jonas can get the supplies. 

So she turns to go get her phone, thinks about what she’s going to say to him, knows she’s going to have to do a good job of it.

“What are you doing?” Quinn asks in the pained raspy tone he’s developed.

“What I should have done last night,” she says. “I’m calling Jonas. His sister’s a doctor.” 

Carrie grabs her phone from her bag, looks at it for a long second, exhales all her anxieties. Desperate times call for desperate measures, she tells herself as she dials, puts the phone up to her ear. 

Jonas answers on the second ring, says her name in a tone of half panic half concern. 

“Yeah, it’s me,” she replies, doesn’t bother keeping the waver out of her voice. 

“What the hell, Carrie, where have you been?” he asks, now somewhere between worry and anger. 

“Listen, Jonas,” she says, ignoring his question entirely. “I need your help. It’s an emergency. I’ll explain everything later.” 

“What?” Jonas asks, sounds completely bewildered. “What emergency?” 

“I need medical supplies,” she says, a little desperation in her tone. “IV antibiotics, saline, wound dressings. Can you ask your sister to get it for you? I need it as soon as possible.” 

“What?” Jonas exclaims yet again, surprise changing to panic. “Are you hurt? What the hell happened?” 

Carrie bites her lip, knows she will just have to go for it, suffer the consequences later. There’s no way Jonas will do this unless she lies, and she doesn’t have the time to explain anyway, even if she could. So she does what she has to do, what Quinn needs her to do. 

“Yes, I’m hurt,” she says, thinking to herself she just wants him to get moving, get the supplies from his sister. “Pretty seriously. I’ll tell you what happened when you get here okay? How soon can you get the stuff from your sister?” 

Jonas is definitely in panic mode now, tells her he will get the supplies right away, takes down the address. 

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he promises, the worry obvious in his voice. “Tell me you’re going to be okay, Carrie.” 

Carrie takes a deep breath, closes her eyes. Thinks what she’s about to say is a lie in every way. Because physically she will probably be okay, but in every other way she thinks maybe she won’t be okay ever again.

“I’ll be okay, Jonas,” she says as sincerely as she can. “Just come as fast you can. Please.” 

With that she hangs up, drops her phone back into her bag tiredly. Thinks how pissed off Jonas is going to be when he gets there, then remembers it’s worth it a thousand times over if it ends up saving Quinn’s life. 

With that Carrie shakes her head, accepts that she’s just going to have to deal with it when Jonas shows up. Walks back over to Quinn, who’s still huddled in the fetal position on the bed, clearly in intense pain. 

And ever since he’s been wounded Carrie’s found she can’t quite keep her hands off him, wants to remove his pain with just her touch. It’s not like her, especially not with Quinn. But she thinks he really needs someone right now, that he is somehow both harder and more fragile than before. 

So Carrie doesn’t resist her urge, puts a hand on Quinn’s shoulder, the other on his back. Tries to hold him together as he shudders in pain, tells herself not to panic about how feverish he feels under her palms, gives him an exasperated sigh when he tries to argue with her through gritted teeth, obvious bouts of pain. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” he mutters through a gasp. Looks at her with those fluttery eyelashes, in that way that makes him seem much more innocent than he is. 

“It was that or the hospital,” she replies, figures that will put the argument to rest. 

Quinn scowls and it turns into another grimace of pain, tension in his skin. 

“You know that can’t happen,” he growls, obviously still ready to do battle even in his weakened condition. 

But Carrie just shakes her head, gives him a worried smile.

“Just get better okay, Quinn?” she says, patting him on the shoulder lightly. “Then we won’t have to worry about it.” 

Quinn nods and winces, then convulses and moans for a long tense moment before finally settling again under her hands, a slight tremor in his body. 

Carrie looks at him, trying her best not to freak out. He’s not doing well, eyes fluttering yet again. 

But then he looks up and blinks a couple times, gives her a little smirk. 

“He’s going to be really pissed off when he gets here,” he says, somehow managing to look wide eyed and sincere while still being his sassy self. 

And that at least makes her half-laugh, look at him sardonically. 

“Yeah he will,” Carrie replies with a sarcastic oh-shit look, a little nod. 

Quinn smiles weakly at that and she realizes that she’s started absently rubbing his back, that he’s almost fallen asleep under her thumb. 

And there’s something about a sleepy Quinn that makes her remember how endearing he can be. But right now all she can think of is Quinn’s last comment, how pissed Jonas will be. 

Because there’s no doubt he’s going to be angry. 

Especially when he gets a look at Quinn.


	11. 5.5.4

Carrie’s thumb traces a path on his burning skin, the proximity of her presence completely doing him in. Quinn grunts in pain, shudders in the fetal position. 

Her other hand drifts to his brow, rests against his skin for a long moment.

“God, you are on fire,” she says, worry clear in his voice. “You should drink some water.” 

Quinn pulls together all his energy, shakes his head.

 “I’m okay,” he replies weakly. 

But Carrie’s already gone to get him water he’s not sure he can handle. Comes back with a cup, the same concerned look. 

She sits on the bed, puts her hand on his back to steady him as Quinn tries to grasp the glass, bring it to his mouth. 

He manages a couple of sips, but the effort just exacerbates the pain and Carrie has to catch the glass as he lets it slip, shudders with full body despair. 

She puts the water aside, then her hand moves to the nape of his neck again, sends current down his spine. And once again Quinn wonders how it’s possible for him to feel so shitty yet soothed. It is alarming how touchy she’s being with him, almost worth the extreme suffering, the searing through his entire body. 

Even now he still wonders at the impossibility of it all. Carrie here, acting as if she actually cares; which really just means things are really bad. Yet she definitely shouldn’t be there at all, especially shouldn’t be worrying about him.

“If things get worse you have to go,” he says with a gasp, looking at her as sincerely as he can. 

But Carrie just raises her eyebrows, gives him a ‘yeah sure’ expression. 

“I’ll go if you go to the hospital,” she replies predictably. 

Fuck, Quinn thinks. She still knows how to end an argument before it’s even started, shut down any discussion.

“Carrie,” he groans, tries to express his frustration as best he can. 

Yet Quinn knows there was never any hope, that he rarely wins with her. And with the way she’s holding him, he’s going to lose every time. 

So he’s not upset when Carrie just shakes her head at him, gives him a small smile. And both of them are quiet for awhile after that, words unnecessary to express everything he’s feeling. The contrary experiences of pleasure and pain, the soothing rhythm of Carrie rubbing his back. 

He’s almost drifted into unconsciousness when he hears Carrie sigh, pat his back anxiously. 

“I’m glad you’re back,” she says quietly, almost as if she doesn’t mean for him to hear it. 

“A lot of good it’s done you,” Quinn mutters, just managing to open his eyes as he responds. His whole plan of ensuring her safety, getting her out of town had completely been compromised in a single day. And now she’s stuck caring for him, dealing with a bullet wound that’s his own fucking fault. 

But Carrie shakes her head, keeps looking at him so fondly he can barely stand it. 

“I’d be dead if not for you,” she replies. 

“Or there’d just be a dead guy in the woods,” Quinn says with a pained laugh. 

Carrie smiles wryly at that, raises her eyebrows at him. 

“Yeah, sorry about that,” she says with a little apologetic tilt of her head. 

It’s another one of those mannerisms that he’s spent two years trying to forget, one of the many things he fucking loves about her. 

“It was a good shot,” he replies, really means it too. She probably would have killed anyone else coming to look for her, just another one of those thing he can’t help but love.

Carrie smiles again at that, takes the compliment with a shrug. Then lifts the back of his shirt, moves her thumb gently over the bruise that she gave him. Doesn’t say anything, expresses everything through the compassion in her touch. 

It’s almost sensory overload, too much of something he’d never expected. But there’s nothing he can do to fight it, especially with the rising darkness, the weakness throughout. 

Quinn feels himself slipping off, closes his eyes and savours her closeness. Is almost gone when he hears her mutter again, as if only to herself. 

“I missed you,” she whispers, an almost silent confession. 

Fuck Carrie, you’re not supposed to say shit like that, Quinn thinks as he drifts into the dark. You don’t even know how I’ve missed you, no matter how much I’ve tried to forget. 

“Please don’t disappear again,” she adds, the sadness in her tone making his heart freeze. 

And it’s a good thing he’s way past consciousness, couldn’t reply if he wanted to. Because it’s the one thing he can’t promise, what he always resorts to in desperate times. 

But as he finally slips under, Quinn tells himself that he can still promise to do right by her, will do whatever he can to make sure she remains safe. Then falls into the darkness, Carrie in his every cell. 

*

Quinn’s sleeping again, looks so peaceful she can almost convince herself not to worry. But not really. Because Carrie knows he’s not doing well at all, continues to burn under her touch. 

She gets up to check her phone, wonder when Jonas is going to get there. Stares at the phone for a long minute, then tells herself to calm down, that there’s nothing she can do to accelerate the process. 

Goes back to sit with Quinn, thinks it’s been a long while since she’s seen him stir. 

Carrie sits down next to him, her hand on his shoulder. 

“Quinn?” she says, giving him a little shake. 

He doesn’t respond and she tries again, gives him another shake. 

“Quinn?” she repeats, gets no reaction at all.

Carrie looks for any sign of consciousness, gives him a little slap on his cheek but even that gets nothing from him. Which is not a good sign, amps up her anxiety considerably. And the best she can do is press her fingers nervously into him, try to tell him she’s there, that she’s really fucking worried about him. 

Finally there’s a knock at the door and Carrie hurries to open it, meet her immediate fate. 

“Come in, quickly,” she says to Jonas as he picks up the bag of supplies. 

But he stalls in the doorway, looks her over, realizes he was lied to. 

“You don’t look hurt,” Jonas says, accusingly. “You said you were hurt.”

Yeah, there’s that, Carrie thinks. But for now she needs to get some antibiotics into Quinn. Fast. So she preps herself to take his anger, just let him have it out. As long as it gets her what she needs.

“Please, it’s not safe out there,” she says, closing the door as he finally comes inside.

Jonas turns, looks as pissed off as he ever gets. 

“You said this was for you,” he says. 

“Well, it’s not,” Carrie replies, reaching for the supplies. 

Jonas pulls them away, something she hadn’t quite anticipated, not what she needs right now. 

“Hey!” she says, startled by his reaction. 

“Last time I saw you, you were running into the woods with a rifle, screaming about assassins and avenging angels and then, nothing. Three days nothing. And then you call and tell me you’re injured, seriously injured. What the fuck, Carrie?” Jonas says, as she figured he would. It’s fair and she knows it. But she can deal with it all after she sticks an IV into Quinn. 

“You’re right,” Carrie replies, has nothing better to say. 

“On top of everything else I’m putting my sister’s medical license at risk here,” Jonas continues, obviously trying to make an impact on her.

But right now she doesn’t really give a shit about medical licenses, lies she had to tell. She needs Jonas to get the severity of the situation and adapt to it now. 

“Okay, there is a guy in the next room, he’s been shot,” she says, figures that will get his attention. “If we don’t get an IV into him now he’s not going to make it.” 

“Who is he?” Jonas asks. 

Good question, Carrie thinks, stutters in her thoughts before answering. 

“He’s a friend,” she finally says, gets a skeptical look from Jonas.

“A colleague, okay,” she adds, trying to think of ways to describe Quinn. “I’ll explain later, I promise.” 

“Why should I do anything for you?” Jonas says, obviously still pissed off. 

And Carrie doesn’t have an answer for that, can’t think of anything Jonas owes her. Especially after everything she’s just done to him. But she also knows he won’t stop her from taking the supplies, that he doesn’t have that kind of combative will. And right now, that’s all that she cares about.

“I don’t know,” she finally says, looks at him in a way that says she’s sorry, but she’s got another priority at the moment. 

“You got the antibiotics?” she asks, dares him to say no. 

But of course Jonas caves, nods and follows her into the other room. Is staring at Quinn, out cold on the bed with an appraising look when she tells him to wash his hands, that she’s going to need his help. 

Thankfully Jonas is back to being pliable, nods and washes his hands while she looks through the supplies then washes her own hands, puts on gloves. 

Carrie takes a deep breath, reminds herself she knows how to do this. Hangs the bags of antibiotics, saline on some industrial piping. 

She gives Quinn another little shake, just to make sure he’s still out. Thinks that’s a good thing considering her skill level at inserting IVs, the slight shake she’s got going on just thinking about it. Carrie pauses for a second, nervously runs her thumb nervously against the back of Quinn’s hand. Then remembers that Jonas is watching, that the IV needs to get in right away. 

Focus, she tells herself. Stop just worrying about him and get the job done.

Then, with Jonas’ skeptical eyes all over her, Carrie picks up the needle, sticks it into Quinn’s hand.


	12. 5.5.5

Carrie finishes washing the last traces of red off of Quinn, thinks to herself she’s had far too much interaction with his blood lately. Then gently wipes his wounds clean, presses some new dressings on. 

She starts with his back, the exit wound looking much worse than the entry. Covers it in multiple layers of padding, turns and gets a strip of tape from Jonas. 

Jonas hasn’t really said anything to her since they argued at the door and she wonders how long until he asks for an explanation now that she’s not otherwise occupied with starting the IV, cleaning Quinn up.

Of course it doesn’t take long at all. Jonas hands her a second piece of tape, then gives her a stern look. 

“So who is he?” he asks. “You said you would explain.” 

Carrie looks at him, knows he deserves something of an answer at least. 

“We used to work together,” she says, because that’s the only real hard truth she can come up with. She never even really thought of Quinn as an actual friend, maybe because their lives never afforded them normal friendship situations. Just a guy she relied on, that she cared about, that always came through for her. Well. Except when he took off in the end. Like everyone else. 

“At the CIA?” Jonas asks. 

“Yes,” she replies, wonders how much she’s able to tell.

“So why isn’t he in a hospital? And why are you the one dealing with this instead of the CIA?” Jonas asks. 

Carrie puts another piece of tape on, runs her hands over his burning skin to press it tight. Looks at Quinn somewhat fondly, shakes her head in exasperation. 

“He’s here because he’s a stubborn bastard and going to the hospital would blow my cover,” she explains, as best she can. “And he’s... unofficial. So he has no support from the Agency.” 

“What do you mean, your cover?” Jonas asks, looks like his head is going to explode. “Carrie, this is ridiculous. You sound like you’re in a spy movie.” 

Carrie shakes her head, thinks yeah, well they probably based those fucking spy movies on my life. Wonders what is the least amount of information she can give him and still get him to go along with what’s happening. 

“Look, all you need to know is he saved my life,” Carrie explains. “He was sent to kill me and he didn’t. He faked my death so I could disappear but I convinced him to let me stay and then someone tried to kill him.” 

“And why didn’t you take him to the hospital?” 

“He wouldn’t go, whoever is trying to kill us will be looking around for him in hospitals. So I’m all he’s got right now,” she says, finishing the dressing on Quinn’s wound and brushing her hand up against his brow. 

Jonas is quiet for a moment and she can feel his eyes on her. But she can’t help that her concern for Quinn is coming out in a need to touch him, make sure he’s still there. 

Finally Carrie looks up, sees that Jonas is giving her an odd look. 

“How come I’ve never heard of him before?” he asks. “You seem to care a lot about him.” 

Carrie takes a breath, thinks fuck. 

“He’s classified,” she says, trying to stonewall. 

“Carrie,” Jonas says, in a tone that indicates approaching anger. “Come on.” 

“What?” she replies, not actually sure what Jonas is getting at. There’s really nothing else to say, she thinks. They worked together and he was always good to her. It’s most of the truth, enough. 

“He’s the one you’ve been looking for,” Jonas says, sounds both accusing and sure. “The one you sometimes chase in your dreams.” 

And now she’s on the defensive, didn’t see this coming at all. Wonders where Jonas is even getting this from, thinks he must be being paranoid. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jonas,” Carrie replies, gives him her best ‘what the fuck’ look. 

“Everywhere we go, you look for someone. Especially when we travel. I may not be CIA but I can see it,” he responds, looks at her darkly. 

Fuck, Carrie thinks. Of course she did it, unconsciously by now. Scanned her surroundings, including any likely candidates. Partly her training, partly her sense of loss. And, of all people, he could have really been anywhere, so she had to look. Just in case. 

She just didn’t know that Jonas had noticed, that he thought anything of it. Or that he realized she had dreams about chasing Quinn through endless hellholes, always a step behind him and impending disaster.

But what the hell could she say now? Something to deflect. 

“Yeah, well. He did disappear,” she says. “I couldn’t help but wonder. And it’s not what you think.” 

Jonas nods in a ‘yeah sure’ kind of way, looks at her tiredly. 

“So now he’s back and was supposed to kill you? Gets shot and won’t go to the hospital? This is crazy, Carrie,” he says, as if she doesn’t already know it. 

Yet the thing is it’s crazy and it’s not. In a way, the situation started feeling more normal once Quinn was in the picture. This is the sort of thing that happens to unite them - dire situations with little support. Insanity on every front, possible death around every corner. 

So Carrie looks at Jonas, shakes her head in a whatever kind of way. Shrugs and exhales a little exasperation. 

“Actually, for us, this is kind of par for the course,” she says. 

Jonas looks at her as if she’s from another planet and Carrie just shrugs again, tries to remember that of course he doesn’t get it, thinks it’s insane. Because it is definitely insane. Her and Quinn alone. Him with an infected bullet hole, her with nothing but a wig and a prayer. But still she believes she can do it, that she can figure it out. Save them both. 

Jonas shakes his head, gives her a strange look while she turns back to look at Quinn, starts dressing the entry wound on his torso. And thankfully Jonas is quiet for awhile, just passes her tape as she wonders what he’s thinking, if he’s going to be able to adapt to the situation. 

After awhile he asks her what she’ll do if Quinn doesn’t get better and she doesn’t want to think about it, has to believe that the IV and new bandaging will be enough. Because otherwise it will involve a battle with Quinn, who would probably just try to run the first chance he got. 

That is if he regains consciousness, she thinks to herself before remembering to shut off that thought. It’s just easier to believe that Quinn will be okay because she needs him to be. And he’s yet to fail her.

“He will,” she replies, tries to sound sure. 

“But if he doesn’t?” Jonas persists. “Will you take him to the hospital then?” 

Not unless there are no other options, Carrie thinks. And she can at least think of one.

 “Would your sister come and examine him first?” she asks. If she can get a medical opinion on Quinn, or even just some help with his wounds it could be enough, she thinks. 

Jonas looks down, kind of shakes his head. 

“She might if I asked her to,” he says. “But I won’t involve my family in this anymore.” 

Carrie nods, isn’t particularly surprised. It’s the way Jonas is, bound by the rules of so called normal life, civilian society. 

“Okay,” she replies. “I get that.” 

“I won’t be involved anymore either,” he continues. 

Carrie looks at him, unsure of what he means. That he’s done with this? With her? 

Really her entire life is at risk right now, the chance of figuring everything out and resuming her regular Berlin existence seeming less and less likely. At this point she either figures out who’s trying to kill her and eliminates the problem or she disappears forever. But either way her life with Jonas has already been severely compromised and is possibly unrepairable. 

He’s just not made to take shit like this, she thinks. It’s part of what she loved about him right up until the shit hit the fan. 

“You’ve done more than enough, Jonas,” she says, means it. She’s put him through a lot, attacked him, lied to him, used him. All those ‘old’ Carrie things. “Thank you. I mean that.” 

“No one should have to live like this,” he replies, sounds upset still. 

“I just said you don’t have to,” she answers, throwing a blanket over Quinn and then turning to avoid Jonas’ look. 

“I’m not talking about me,” he says. 

Carrie thinks fuck, she’s not sure she wants to have this conversation right now. 

“Well, I don’t have a choice,” she says, even though she knows he doesn’t have the capacity to understand this. That everything she’s doing is so she can get back to Frannie, that it’s not something that can be dealt with by the regular fucking police. 

“Yes you do,” he argues, as if she can just stop being the target of a kill order. 

“Well, I wish that were true,” she replies. Because if her choice is between Quinn dying and her on the run or her happy life with Jonas and Frannie, there’s not much of decision to make. But she didn’t make this decision, doesn’t get to choose the outcome. 

Carrie knows she shouldn’t be pissed off at Jonas, that he’s done as much as he can, everything she’s asked of him. She always knew that there was a line with him, that maintaining her life with him included hiding facts about herself, certain aspects of her life. That their life together wasn’t made to deal with this type of situation. And now he is already way past his comfort zone.

Jonas scoffs, as if he doesn’t believe her. 

“This is insane,” he says. “Assassination attempts, gun battles in the street. You’ve got to find a way to stop all this, Carrie.” 

He comes up to her, looks suddenly overcome with emotion. 

“I don’t want to lose you, I can’t lose you,” he says, shaking his head sadly. “I thought I had...” 

Carrie looks away from him, blinks back tears. It’s not like she wanted to lose this thing she had with Jonas, she thinks. But sometimes life throws assassination attempts at you and then you’re left to deal with it the best you can. Even if that means abandoning your well-meaning but ill-equipped boyfriend for the moment because he can’t understand the facts of the situation. 

So she wants to tell him he won’t lose her but figures it’s better not to lie. Because she can’t see how this is going to resolve back into their happy life, doesn’t want him to hold onto false hope. 

Jonas turns away and Carrie doesn’t know what to say or do. A part of her still wants to comfort him, tell him that she doesn’t want to lose him either. But mostly she can’t think about Jonas, Frannie, her happy Berlin life. Not while Quinn is seriously injured and someone’s trying to kill her. 

So in the end she doesn’t say anything at all, just sits back down next to Quinn. Realizes a line was just drawn in her relationship with Jonas, one he’s unwilling to cross. Wonders if it’s really the end, if he’s done with all of it.

Of course then Carrie can’t help but look at Quinn, think how he’s crossed every line for her, always come through for her in the end. No matter the cost to himself, how callously she treated him. 

So though she should be scared, mourning for her relationship; all Carrie can think about is how worried she is about Quinn, that she really needs him to wake up and be alright. 

*

Flashes, dark and light. There, yet not there at all. 

Something in his hand. Then again. And another. No pain though, no feeling. 

He burns, chills, aches. Sleeps and drifts, hears voices, indistinct.

It’s faint, the voices. But it’s her, sounding worried. 

He wants that to stop, remembers she’s supposed to be dead, gone. That it’s not safe. 

But there’s nothing to be done, he has no control. Half asleep, body searing. 

Then hands, hers. Over his skin, soapy, soft. 

Clean, dry. Cool, deft hands, all around him, gentle, caressing.

A fever dream, he thinks. Surely. 

Her touch sizzles against him everywhere it goes, scarifies his skin. It feels like nothing else, ecstatic pain, his every need.

And so he takes it all in, then falls back into the dark. 

*

Quinn wakes to a terse discussion between Carrie and some guy he thought he hallucinated, hears the word ambulance and tenses up right away. 

Opening his eyes slowly, he has to blink a few extra times to retain focus but eventually he sees Carrie sitting next to him but looking into the other room, talking to the boyfriend she conned into bringing medical supplies for him. 

Well, this is unlikely and awkward, Quinn thinks groggily. Especially with him in a position of weakness. Not that it was that sort of situation. Though of course there is the need to assess the guy she chose. 

Carrie is still looking into the other room, hasn’t noticed that he’s awake so Quinn has time to silently evaluate the situation. He can already feel the IV in his hand, isn’t burning quite as bright. Still feels weak as shit, barely able to keep his eyes open. But she did a decent job for an amateur, he muses. Always manages to impress. 

Self-assessment done, he lets his eyes wander over towards the voice in the other room. Thinks, so this is the guy, her attempt at normalcy. He’s yammering on about ambulances and Carrie is obviously just stalling, stonewalling as she does. 

Quinn looks over at the boyfriend, suddenly wonders where he left his gun. Then realizes he shouldn’t be thinking about shooting Carrie’s guy, that she’d be pissed about it.

He gets wrapped up in observing the boyfriend, wondering what she sees in him. And Quinn’s easily decided the guy’s no threat when he notices too late that Carrie’s now looking at him, has caught him watching. 

So he doesn’t bother to hide it, just gives her the silent ‘really?’ look. 

Carrie smirks, has that gleam in her eye, gives him a conspiratorial glance. 

“Don’t hurt him, okay?” she says, barely a whisper. 

Quinn tries to muffle his laugh but he knows the boyfriend heard because Carrie glances over, flashes a fake contrite look. Then she turns back and gives him a little shrug, a full on smile. 

And again his first reaction is that something’s wrong, that this isn’t actually Carrie looking at him so fondly. But then she puts her hand to his brow and it is definitely her. There is no mistaking her touch, he thinks, before he remembers he’s not supposed to want this, think shit like that. 

“Hey,” she says, still with a soft smile. “Feeling better?” 

Quinn nods although he still feels like shit, thinks he still could sleep for another couple days, maybe forever. But he needs to stay conscious, make sure nothing happens to her. 

“Yeah, I’m good,” he says, though it comes out weaker than expected. 

“Sure,” Carrie replies, with her ‘yeah right’ expression. “I’m still waiting on Astrid so you should sleep, Quinn. I promise I won’t go anywhere.” 

That’s the problem, he thinks as he tries to stay awake, fight the uselessness of sleep. She shouldn’t be here at all. Yet there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it, can’t win against her even when he’s not half-conscious, weak with infection. 

And then she gets up from the chair, sits on the bed next to him, her hand resting on his shoulder, her thumb making a pattern in his skin. Fuck, she fights dirty, Quinn thinks, knows he’s lost again. Falls asleep under her touch in seconds, thinks this surely can’t be real. 

*

The next time Quinn wakes it’s to the sound of footsteps, heavier than Carrie’s. And his automatic reaction is to reach for his weapon, then groans at the pain of movement, the realization that his gun isn’t there. 

He opens his eyes to see the boyfriend eyeing him suspiciously, figures he should get the jump on the situation. 

“Who the fuck are you?” Quinn asks, even though he already knows enough about Jonas Hollander the top tier German lawyer to tail his ex-wife, kidnap his child. 

Jonas looks surprised for a second, then pissed off. Turns with a serious look on his face. 

“I’m the guy who just saved your life,” he says, a bit smartly.

“No, that was all her,” Quinn replies, shaking his head. “And I’m not entirely happy about it anyhow.” 

Now Jonas looks annoyed, scowls. 

“So why are you still alive if you don’t want to be?” he asks. 

“Do you even know her?” Quinn responds, blinks pseudo-innocently. “She’s fucking persuasive.” 

Jonas scowls again and Quinn thinks, mission accomplished. He has a play to make and the boyfriend is the perfect rube. Pissing him off just makes things easier, better entertainment value too. 

But of course Carrie wanders back over just then, catches the last of the discussion, their muted expressions of hostility. She looks between them and then gives Quinn her half-scowl half-smile. 

“Play nice, Quinn,” she admonishes. 

Quinn blinks again, pretends he doesn’t know what she’s talking about. 

“I am,” he says, all innocence. 

Carrie gives him a look that says bullshit, shakes her head knowingly. 

“You’re not going to convince him I need to be on a train,” she states firmly. 

Fuck, Quinn thinks. She really does fucking know him. Because that was exactly his play - to goad the boyfriend into it, convince him he’s no man unless he makes her leave. Which, he thinks, is both hypocritical and not. Because Quinn knows he’s no man, at least not on this issue. Otherwise she would be far gone, him too. 

But of course she saw right through it, smirks at her little victory. And he thinks fuck, no wonder he never wins. 

“Fuck you, Carrie,” he says, in a way they both know he means and doesn’t mean. 

Carrie smiles, gives him an amused look as she sits down on the bed with him again, Jonas’ eyes following her every movement.

“You can’t win them all,” she says with sassy shrug. 

“Sure, gloat about beating the dying guy,” Quinn replies with a sigh, lies back tiredly. Just being conscious is exhausting still and he suddenly feels completely drained, ready to sleep again. 

Carrie’s smile suddenly wipes into a frown at his comment, and she puts her hand on his bare chest, pushes into him. 

“Jesus, Quinn. Don’t say shit like that,” she snaps. “You are not dying.” 

Maybe not quite yet, he thinks. She’s done the best she could, a good job under the circumstances. Saved his life thus far, even against his own inclinations. 

So even if Quinn’s not entirely thankful for the gift of ongoing existence, he is still overcome by her efforts, sure he doesn’t deserve any of it. 

“Yeah, thanks to you,” he replies, tries to actually sound sincere. She’s done more for him than he could ever expect, especially considering how rough he’d been on her. Has been so good to him he feels like shit about it, knows he’s unworthy of her care. 

Carrie gives him a smile, her hand still pressed against his sternum. 

“I would be really fucking sad,” she says, little more than a whisper. 

And again Quinn thinks he doesn’t deserve it, that he has fucked this all up royally. That she should be far away, safe, mourning her lost child. Definitely should not be here worrying about him while her boyfriend watches on.


	13. 5.5.6

Carrie’s sitting beside him, giving him that look of concern he can barely handle when Quinn wakes again, blinks his way back into consciousness. 

“Hey,” she says with a smile. 

He can’t help but think again that she’s being way too good to him, is more worried than she should be. But he also can’t deny it means something that she hasn’t abandoned him, has done about as much as she can. 

“Anything news?” Quinn asks, wonders how long he’s been out for. 

Carrie shakes her head, keeps looking at him in that way that makes him uncomfortable. 

“What?” he finally says, unable to maintain the tension of being watched.

Carrie startles a bit, as if she didn’t quite realize she was doing it. Then shrugs and smiles again, exhales loudly in that way she does. 

“I’m just glad you’re awake,” she says with a little shake of her head. “You feeling any better?” 

Quinn nods, thinks he isn’t exactly lying. He does feel better, yet still pretty fucking shitty. Carrie doesn’t need to know that part though, will never leave if she thinks he’s dying. 

“Yeah, I’m good,” he lies, tries to make it sound legit. 

Carrie sighs, gives him a skeptical look, that same concerned half-smile. Then looks up as Jonas calls her from the other room, tells her there’s something she should see. 

She goes over and Quinn can hear the news report on a protest at the Russian embassy, that it somehow involves the documents that got leaked. Then Carrie gets on the phone with Astrid, and he strains to make out what she’s saying, hear if they IDed the guy. 

Carrie ends the call, seems to have a lead. 

“I’ve been such a fool,” she says. “It’s been staring me right in the face.” 

“What has?” he hears Jonas ask. Which echoes Quinn’s own thoughts as he becomes suddenly nervous about the energy he hears in her voice. 

“Quinn needs to hear this too,” Carrie says, thankfully bringing the conversation back towards him, where he can better assess what the hell she’s going to do. 

“Did you get a name?” he asks as she walks back over. 

“Got more than that,” she replies in that tone that says she’s onto something. “I’ve got who tried to kill you worked for Russian intelligence - that’s who got in the middle of your operation. Saul didn’t put my name in that kill box, the Russians did.” 

“Why?” Quinn asks, can’t see what the Russians have anything to do with this whole mess. 

“Well, think about it,” Carrie says. “The stuff Laura Sutton published last week was only part of what was hacked out of Berlin station.” 

“So there was something in the additional documents the SVR didn’t want you to see,” Jonas says, catching on. 

Shit, Quinn thinks. Has to admit he didn’t see this coming, that the situation is worse than he thought. If it’s Russian intelligence out looking for Carrie then she’s definitely not safe anywhere in Berlin. Especially if there’s someone interested enough to have figured out his system with Saul. And if he knows Carrie at all, she’s about to head back out there, try to round up these documents herself, figure out what they didn’t want her to see in the first place. Basically put herself at risk in order to become a even larger threat. 

She can’t go out there alone, he thinks. Needs someone to look out for her, watch her back. And the boyfriend is clearly no operator, would be a liability in almost any situation. 

“Correct,” Carrie says, that determined tone in her voice. 

Quinn struggles to get up, thinks he can at least hold a weapon, feels like he has to do something other than just lie there. 

“What are you doing?” Carrie asks, already starting to lean down towards him.

“If you’re going back out there again I’m coming with you,” he says, tries to make it sound convincing, like he could actually do this. 

But by then Carrie’s already caught his weakened body in her arms and Quinn already knows he won’t win. 

“No, hey, hey, hey, Quinn, lie back,” she says, easily pushing him back down to the bed. 

“It’s too dangerous,” he mutters, suddenly feverishly sure she’s going to get spotted, found out. 

“It’s not,” Carrie replies, forceful yet gentle. “No one’s after me at the moment thanks to you.” 

He knows she’s just trying to make him feel better but the truth is he should not be anywhere near a gun in his condition. She holds him to the bed, her hand pressing on his chest and Quinn’s already exhausted with his effort but still doesn’t want to admit defeat. He exhales in frustration, thinks how he is never going to win with her. Especially when she’s being this nice, almost inexplicably so. 

“Where’s Laura?” Carrie asks, making his anxiety grow. As if just being in Berlin wasn’t enough, she’s trying to make contact with her original source, Quinn thinks. It makes him fucking nervous even though he knows that Carrie’s right, that no one should be looking for her right now.

The boyfriend goes off to call her and Carrie sits down by the bed again, leans down towards him. 

“Hey, you gonna be alright?” she asks softly. 

Too concerned, he thinks. And not about the right things.

“I’d be better if you’d get the hell out of dodge,” he replies, even though he knows she won’t. Not until she’s either figured it out, exhausted her resources, or ended up dead. 

“I can’t do that. Not now, ” she replies predictably. “We’ll talk about it when I get back, okay?” 

But Quinn knows that things are going downhill in his own situation, that he’s going to have to come up with a plan soon. And he’s thinking of all the shit that could go wrong before she makes it back when Carrie stands up, runs her hand through his hair, pats his head gently.

Which is just too much. Quinn looks up at her askance as her fingers drift away, wonders what the hell has gotten into her. Of course he attributes her touchiness with him to his obviously pathetic state, a physical projection of her concern. And so her hands have become the ultimate catch twenty two. So soothing, irresistible. Yet each touch makes him hate himself a little more, reminds him she’s there partly for him, that her continued presence in Berlin is entirely on him. 

It all just reinforces the idea that he can’t win, that he’s completely lost when it comes to her. The only thing left of his life, something to die for. 

*

Carrie goes to run her fingers through Quinn’s fever-soaked hair, is halfway through the gesture when she remembers she’s only been doing this while he’s out cold, that this is not something she would normally do at all. But she figures what the fuck, does it anyhow, feels almost compelled to touch him. Wants him to know that she really does care, that he has her pretty fucking worried. 

She almost smiles to herself, thinks how ridiculous he’s being. So Quinn. Trying so hard to be reliable. To protect her. Even when he looks terrible, so weak she can barely stand it. He has always been there for her and now she has to figure this all out, get him well. 

He wants her to leave so badly but then how’s she ever going to get her life back? And who’s going to make sure he doesn’t die out of pure stubbornness? She just needs to get her hands on the documents and then get back quickly, make sure he doesn’t do anything rash. 

But until then she can’t leave Quinn on his own, knows she’s going to have to ask Jonas to stay. There isn’t much choice in the matter, could likely be the last thing she can ask of him after everything she’s put him through. 

Not that she feels good about leaving Quinn with Jonas, knows this is way the hell out of Jonas’ comfort zone. Even part of her still can’t believe any of this has happened, that there would be a situation where Jonas would ever even find out about Quinn, much less meet him. All too crazy, as Jonas would say. 

But in the end Carrie knows it’s just how her life goes, especially when crisis strikes. When she is on the hunt she will manipulate anyone to her advantage, especially a Jonas, such a good guy, easily used. Then bear the consequences later, when the situation has been resolved. 

So Jonas hangs up his call, tells her that Laura Sutton is at the Russian Embassy covering the demonstration. And she thinks fuck, this is probably not going to turn out well. Leaving her nice boy Jonas alone with her cold assassin Quinn. Even with a bullet hole in him Quinn could do some damage. 

But she doesn’t have any choice, tells herself it’s just for a few hours. Looks at Jonas and tells herself to be convincing. 

“I’m gonna need you to look after him for awhile,” she says, ready to argue. 

“Carrie...” Jonas groans, in that tone that says he’s over it. 

“I’ll just be a few hours, last thing I will ask you to do, I swear,” she continues, over his objections. Gives him her best desperate look, knows he can’t possibly leave her in the lurch like this. 

And of course Jonas nods, with the saddest look in his eyes. Defeat and concern and anger all together, enough to make her genuinely feel bad for him, regret what she’s put him through. It’s more self-aware than she usually is about this sort of thing, Carrie realizes. Has previously done shit like this without thinking much about the people she used along the way, even the ones she cared about. Like all those times she pulled Quinn back into the game. 

So she gives Jonas a hug, tries to tell him she appreciates everything he’s done, that she’s sorry he had to be involved. That she knows he can’t possibly understand, that he doesn’t know this side of her. 

Yet this is something she has to do, part of her very DNA. Someone is out to kill her, almost killed Quinn. And no one else can get to the bottom of it, figure it out and save them both. She just hopes there’s enough time, that Quinn can hang on until then.


	14. 5.5.7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, needed some time to process, but hiatus is over (for now). this was written way back with all the other 'skizzen' but just posting it now. then we'll see if new ones get written... no promises!

Carrie’s been gone awhile, finally giving him the space to think clearer, assess the situation. Because it was fairly impossible with her hands all over him, the way she kept looking at him in concern. More than he ever imagined from her, everything he shouldn’t have. 

Quinn knows he’s bleeding out, that there’s not a lot of life left in him. Figures it’s only a matter of time before the boyfriend figures it out, that he has to take advantage of his last hours of lucidity to avoid the inevitable. 

A spasm of cold pain hits him just then, makes him convulse and shiver under the thin blanket. Quinn tries to keep from making any noise, attracting his minder’s attention but can’t help gasping as his wound burns, sears through his weakened body. 

Jonas comes over, looks somewhat concerned yet annoyed. Which was fair enough, Quinn thinks. Count on Carrie to pull something like this. Leave her nice guy to tend to him, both of them pissed off with the situation. 

“I’m fine,” Quinn says preemptively. Tries his best to look it. 

“Why do you pretend?” Jonas asks with an irritated look. 

Stupid question, Quinn thinks. Weakness is always supposed to be hidden. But it’s so fucking hard with her around. 

“It’s just how it is,” he replies, tries to shut down the conversation before it starts. 

But Quinn can see the way the boyfriend’s looking at him, giving him a wary eye. Knows he wants to ask, that it’s inevitable now. 

Still of course Quinn isn’t going to give anything away, waits silently for the questions to begin. Avoids eye contact, wonders what he wants to know. 

Finally Jonas seems to come to a decision, sits down next to the bed and gives Quinn a searching look. 

“So how do you know Carrie?” he asks, says it gruffly, a bit of a challenge. 

An easy one to deflect, Quinn thinks. Still takes a moment to reply, to indicate his displeasure in having this conversation. 

“We worked together,” Quinn replies, short and sweet. The truth really. 

Jonas gives him a considered look, a touch of suspicion. 

“I’ve never met any of her American friends,” he continues, as if they are really just making small talk. 

Quinn’s surprised to think Carrie would even call him a friend, that she might still think of him that way. In his mind they just worked together, anything else was completely on his side of things. Not that she didn’t care - but even when she did those moments just made him feel unnerved, like he didn’t deserve it. 

“People like us don’t have friends,” Quinn states, wonders if it’s really true. 

Jonas gives him another irritated look, like he can’t tell if Quinn’s being serious or if he’s being evasive on purpose. And for a moment Quinn thinks the conversation might be over, that the boyfriend doesn’t want to wade any further into the dangerous waters. 

But then Jonas shakes his head, looks at him directly. 

“She obviously cares a lot about you,” he says, the accusation clear in his voice. 

And that surprises Quinn too, has kind of been flipping him out. He can’t deny that she’s been better to him than he ever imagined, hoped. That he hadn’t expected her to stick around and deal with his fucked up self. Much less sucker her nice guy into helping. Now that was a real Carrie move, Quinn thinks. But for his benefit. Which is something he never expected, not even back then, certainly not now. 

Fuck, he thinks to himself. He does not want to be having this discussion, still can’t quite accept the fact that he’s in this position at all. Incapacitated, forced into talking about Carrie with her politely pissed off German boyfriend.

Quinn doesn’t reply, figures silence is the best recourse. Thinks maybe that will stop the boyfriend from his questioning but doesn’t expect to get off so easily. 

“Tell me about her,” Jonas says. 

Which Quinn understands to mean ‘tell me about the Carrie I don’t know’. And that’s not something he can talk about - legally, ethically, or emotionally. 

“That’s up to her,” he replies. “And classified.” 

The boyfriend makes a face that says he’s heard that one before and Quinn hopes once again the conversation is over. But of course it isn’t, especially not with a lawyer. 

“Carrie said you were supposed to kill her,” Jonas says, cuts to the heart of the matter. “Why didn’t you?” 

It was good lawyering, Quinn admits. The right question, hard to evade. 

So what to say, what to do. He could just refuse to answer but that was almost worse, left so much to imagination. And obviously he can’t tell the truth, that he’s just completely hopeless about her.

Quinn blinks a couple times, buys a few seconds to think. Does his best to explain without really saying anything. 

“I could never hurt her,” he finally says. “She’s been through a lot, had to do things you’d never understand.” 

“She’s not like that anymore,” Jonas responds, though he doesn’t exactly sound sure. 

Quinn smirks wanly. 

“Of course not,” he mutters, gives the boyfriend a mock sincere look. 

Jonas looks pissed off and Quinn almost laughs then starts gasping at the effort, the pain that shoots from his wound. In a bit of a panic Jonas gets up, goes to grab some water. And Quinn thinks fuck, it’s about time to make some decisions, that he can only hide his condition for so long.

By the time Jonas gets back with the water, it’s almost too hard to drink any between the tremor in his hands, the weakness everywhere else. 

“Good god, you’re shaking,” Jonas says, leaning in to help. 

“I’m just cold,” Quinn mutters, gives up on the water. 

It’s taking most of his energy just to stay conscious but when the boyfriend reaches in to look at the bandages Quinn still manages to grab his wrist, tries to resist. 

Not that it does any good. Jonas is determined to look, lifts the blanket off to reveal the bloody mess.

“I’m okay,” Quinn says, trying to buy some time. 

“You’re not,” Jonas replies, stating the obvious, reaching for his phone. 

And now Quinn knows it’s time to pull out his endgame moves, make Carrie’s guy understand that this is all for her. 

Fuck, he thinks. Had really hoped it wouldn’t get to this point. But Quinn has no choice now, has to get the poor sap stuck with him to play along. 

“If you call an ambulance you’ll condemn her to death,” he says, lays it on strong. 

“I can’t just sit here and watch you die,” Jonas replies. Just like a fucking boyscout, Quinn thinks. Fucking hell.

“Then fuck off somewhere else,” Quinn tries. Still can’t believe he’s stuck here getting babysat by Carrie’s guy, a fucking civilian twat who refuses to understand what the stakes are. 

“That’s not an choice either,” Jonas says predictably, still about to make the call. 

“If I’m found like this in a hospital or in a morgue, Carrie will never be free,” Quinn says, spells it out as clearly as he can, in words even a lawyer should understand.

Of course the boyfriend still refuses to get it, or is just completely unable to wrap his head around the situation. And in a way it makes sense, Quinn thinks. Carrie, the most outside the rules person he’s ever met chose mister straight and narrow, a guy who can’t even fathom the shit she’s done. 

“You people are out of your fucking minds,” Jonas finally replies, clearly frustrated. 

But Quinn senses hope, thinks at least he’s at least got the boyfriend’s ear. And now it’s time to do the hard part, put voice to shit that he would never usually say.

“You’d do the same if you were me,” Quinn says, almost a plea. Thinks that this guy has to fucking understand this, that sacrifices have to be made when it comes to her. And if not. Well, then he didn’t deserve her.

“I would not,” Jonas answers, as if he’s never once considered the possibility of having to die for her. Not a good attribute for someone attached to Carrie, Quinn thinks. 

“For her you would,” Quinn argues, thinks it has to be true. Anyone who proclaimed to love her would have to, couldn’t risk it. Fuck, he thinks at the boyfriend. It’s Carrie. How could you not do everything in your power to keep her safe? 

“I would never put myself in that situation,” Jonas replies, shows that he doesn’t fucking get it at all. 

Quinn laughs, can’t believe such a naive guy could have lasted two years with Carrie. That after all that time, he has no idea all the ways he’s been used already, what it means when she’s in operational mode. You’re stuck in an abandoned building taking care of a dying man who’s just made it obvious he’s in love with your girlfriend, Quinn thinks wryly. That doesn’t make it clear how involved you are?

“What?” Jonas snaps. “What’s so goddamned funny?” 

“You’re already that situation,” Quinn replies. Though he can’t really blame the guy for not realizing it. In a way he was in the situation from the moment Carrie picked him to be her normal guy, it was just a ticking time bomb until it went off a few days ago. 

Thankfully Jonas’ phone rings then and the conversation is over for the moment, some time bought. Yet it’s obviously Carrie, which means things just got a lot more urgent as well. Because he knows she will make the call once she hears how bad it is, let the boyfriend call the ambulance. 

And through all the pain and fever Quinn has fixated on this one fact. He is not going to the hospital, will die avoiding it if need be. Really, at this point, dying seems inevitable, he thinks. His mere existence endangers her life. And if he wasn’t here bleeding out maybe she would finally leave town, one less obligation.

So in the end it’s one of the easiest decisions he’s ever made, almost disturbingly so. But Quinn knows it’s been a long time coming, that all the darkness he’s cultivated in his life has finally come to this. 

There are a few way to die without ever being found - something Quinn knows well. So now he just needs to apply it to himself to give her the best chance at survival, leave him where he’s meant to be. Finally at rest, done with all this shit. But at least this gives him something to die for, the only thing that really counts. 

So Quinn takes a deep breath, exhales as he gathers all his energy, weakly pushes himself into a sitting position. Feet on the ground but still seated on the bed, he has to wait a few breaths, barely manages to hold back the groans that would give him away. 

His side screaming, his entire body sagging from pain and infection, Quinn pushes off from the bed, barely manages to stay on his feet. Which isn’t exactly surprising given the amount of blood he’s leaving behind, the infection that’s ravaged his body.

Yet Jonas is still on the phone as Quinn stumbles quietly across the room, leans weakly into enough objects along the way to keep him upright. And by the time the boyfriend is off the phone with the approval to call for an ambulance Quinn’s managed to open the door and find a secure spot to huddle in pain, waiting for his chance to die.

*

Fuck, Carrie thinks as she reaches for her phone. Count on Laura to have nothing after she risked her life to meet with her, left a sick Quinn with poor hapless Jonas. 

She dials Jonas’ number, tells him that Laura didn’t have the documents that she will be a little longer than she thought. 

Jonas sounds tired, anxious.

 

“How much longer?” he asks. 

“A couple hours,” Carrie says, hopes it’s the truth. Every minute she’s out in the open she’s at risk. Yet she can’t go back without the documents, needs to keep trying until she’s completely out of options.

“That’s not going to work,” Jonas replies. “Your friend’s in really bad shape.” 

Fuck, Carrie thinks again. Knows it has to be really bad if Jonas has managed to even figure out that Quinn’s not doing well. Because the fucker would hide it to his last breath, would never show any weakness unless forced to. 

“Tell me,” she says, worry eating at her stomach already. 

“He lost a lot of blood,” Jonas replies, in a half whisper. 

“Jonas, you’re going to have to call your sister,” Carrie tries, needs to buy some time. Thinks she can still ask Saul to get her the files and also make it back to deal with Quinn before he does something stupid. 

“But she’s just going to say he needs to go the emergency room,” Jonas answers, saying exactly what she expects him to say. 

“You don’t know that,” Carrie argues, still sure she can make him call his sister, delay the inevitable fight with Quinn about the hospital.

“Carrie, he’s dying,” Jonas says in a way that makes her finally realize what he’s saying. That things are worse than she imagined, that this is something that needs be dealt with immediately.

Fuck, Carrie thinks, as her heart falls into her gut. She should be there dealing with Quinn, taking care of him. 

Tears come to her eyes and she blinks them away, tries not to think about him actually dying. Because Quinn dying is absolutely not an option, something she could not take. Especially right now, when he’s doing it for her. 

Which means it’s time to get him to the hospital, regardless of the risk, how upset he will be. She has to make the call, has told him so on countless occasions already. 

“Okay then, call an ambulance,” Carrie says. “Do what you have to do.” 

Hangs up with Jonas still saying her name, unable to talk to him with the worry that’s grinding through her gut. Besides, he needs to call the ambulance, hopefully without alerting Quinn to what’s happening.

Carrie stops walking for a moment, freezes on the spot and takes a deep breath. Again fights the tears that keep trying to do her in, tells herself that he’s going to be fine, that he understands her need to find out who’s trying to kill them both. 

Still Carrie thinks again that she shouldn’t have left him, should have realized how poorly he was doing. But instead she left Jonas there to deal with a situation he can’t even comprehend. This is the kind of thing she always does, Carrie realizes. Especially when she’s in this mode, mid operation. She needs to see those documents and that need outweighed everything else. Including Jonas and Quinn, both just getting used by her in their own ways. 

Fuck, she thinks to herself. The worst part is Quinn doesn’t even think he deserves anything at all, doesn’t even accept her feeble attempts. And she just keeps reinforcing this by never telling him, showing him how much he actually matters to her. 

Carrie sighs, shakes her head. She thought she’d learned so much about being a better person to others in her two years gone from the Agency. And yet here she is, falling back into her old self so easily, putting everything aside in pursuit of her answer. 

But the thing is, she’s gone this far, needs to see this through. If it’s what it takes to be with her daughter again then she will do whatever she has to. And she knows Quinn gets this, has never expected anything from her. 

Yet Carrie hopes soon she’ll be able to tell him what he means to her, how he deserves so much more than he thinks. Promises herself she will somehow make this up to him, hang onto him this time, as soon as all of this is over.


	15. 5.5.8

Jonas runs out the door in a panic, like he’s lost a dying man. So easily duped it’s almost tragic, Quinn thinks from his hidey-hole while he gathers the last of his strength for the mission ahead. 

He hobbles towards his gear, has to brace himself every step in order to stay on his feet. The pain is complete now, every nerve burning throughout his entire body as he stumbles along, barely able to hold himself up.

Quinn’s dripping with sweat by the time he makes it to the gun case, pulls the weapon out. For a moment he looks at the gun longingly, craves the immediate absolution it offers. But then he thinks about the mess he’d be leaving behind, knows he has to make it a cleaner end. Sees the zip ties and desperately grabs a handful of them instead. 

The river is close, Quinn thinks feverishly as he pushes on, struggles out the door. 

By the time he’s outside Quinn feels ready to collapse, has to lean most of his weight against a wall just to stay upright. Then just manages to make it to a secluded corner between two buildings before falling to the ground, shuddering in pain, letting the darkness sweep him away. 

*

Quinn wakes to dark settling in, an increasing weakness throughout his body. It takes almost all the energy he has just to pull himself to his feet and he groans to himself thinking of the distance to the canal. 

Just one last thing and then you can rest forever, he tells himself while standing hunched over, gasping after a few steps. But the effort is excruciating, and he’s already sweating feverishly, shivering uncontrollably. 

Yet he struggles forward, one shaky step after another. Focuses on the river, keeps telling himself it will be finally over then. All this pain, self-hate, horror at the state of the world, at the state of himself. And hopefully she’ll be safe, will definitely at least be safer. It’s all he can do to protect her now, such an easy decision for his fevered mind. 

So he keeps going, drags himself through dark alleyways for what seems like an eternity of last steps. Forces himself forward until he finally sees the water, almost collapses at the sight. 

His mind almost gone from exhaustion, loss of blood, Quinn still remembers to look for what he needs. Spots a few cinder blocks behind a warehouse near the dock and knows he’s found his answer. 

He can barely pick one up and still walk, has to stop every step to put the block down, recover for a moment. Thankfully this area of the dock is poorly lit, unpopulated at night, he thinks. Knows he must look pathetic, on his last legs. 

But he manages to make it to the edge of the dock with the block, sets it down and leans on it to rest. The relief of finally making it to the river washes over him and for once Quinn almost feels at peace.

He never imagined he’d get to choose his own end, always thought he’d go out on a mission. Not that he hadn’t ever considered eating his own weapon. But never seriously enough to think it would ever happen. 

Yet here he is, knows what he has to do. So easy really. Nothing to live for, everything to die for. There’s been nothing in his life but death and horror for so long now. Well. Except for the past few days, everything about her so fucking alive. 

It’s why he has to do this, give her a chance. 

But as much as he wants to end it quick, Quinn sits for a moment, takes a few minutes to look out onto the water, make his peace with the end. 

So this is it, he thinks. Pretty fucking pathetic. For so long he thought he knew what he was doing, that it was for the greater good. Now he doesn’t even believe the possibility of goodness exists for humankind, definitely not for himself. 

No, there’s no absolution for him, Quinn thinks. Not after everything he’s done, all that death. What has he ever done but cause more pain, fall back in at the merest glimpse of the light. 

But at least he saw it. Felt it. If even just for the briefest moments. The only light he’s had in his life for years, eons, seemingly forever. 

And now at the end he can finally really admit it to himself. How much he always fucking loved her, why he could never say no. Everything that could never be. 

His body sagging, the shivers taking over, Quinn’s mind wanders to forbidden thoughts. He’s mostly glad she’ll never know how hopeless he is about her, that he completely lost himself after he ran away to Syria. Although he supposes she saw that in their brief interaction here, not that he had managed to keep it up long. 

He thinks she’ll never know how much it meant to him that she tried to save him, stayed with him, risked her own life for his. Even as far gone as he was, it had made him feel something. Comforted, appreciated. Unworthy. 

She should have just let him go from the start, understood that he had nothing left to live for. A shell of a man, tired and hollow. Ready to die for her, his last tie to humanity.

It’s time, Quinn thinks. Looks at the cinder block with a gasp of pain and slides his arm through. 

Achingly pulls out a zip tie, struggles to control his shaking hands as he fumbles with the plastic strip. Is so focused on his task that he doesn’t notice the intruder until he speaks, greets him. 

Quinn looks up, completely aghast. Talk about bad timing, the last thing he fucking needs right now. 

“Go away,” he gasps, as threateningly as he can manage. Thinks to himself that some lone man on the street will take any chance at removing himself from this situation.

But instead of going away, the man comes closer, leans in towards him.   “Only god is permitted to give life and to take life,” he says calmly. 

“I said, go away,” Quinn tries again, barely managing the words. What does this stranger care if he fucking kills himself? He doesn’t know how deserving a death it will be. 

“I won’t,” the man replies. “I cannot. God has sent me to help you.” 

This is not fucking happening, Quinn thinks to himself. Of all the shit for the universe to pull on him. He just wants to die in peace, is ready for the end. And now some fucking good samaritan shows up, right at the last minute? It’s fucking bullshit.

“Unfuckingbelievable,” he mutters, lying his head down on the block in exhaustion, frustration. “Unfuckingbelievable.” 

“You are injured,” the man says. “Please, I will take you to the hospital.” 

Fuck, Quinn thinks, terror triggered with the word hospital. He can’t let it happen, no matter what he has to do.

“No hospital,” he says desperately, whole body shaking, almost convulsing. 

The man doesn’t reply, just reaches over and takes the zip tie. 

“Just leave me the fuck alone,” Quinn gasps, barely audible. 

But of course the man doesn’t comply, leaves him with no choice but to find another solution. 

Quinn slowly crawls to his feet, struggles with every movement as he stumbles down the dock, away from his tormentor. There has to be another way, he thinks as he drags himself through the dark alleyways, desperation dripping from his every pore. 

He’s pushing his way along a row of dumpsters, on his last legs. Each step is nearly beyond his capability, almost enough to take him down. And then Quinn’s feverish mind realizes the answer is right in front of him, that he just has to get himself inside one of the trash containers and bleed to death, get dumped somewhere he’ll never be found. 

But now he’s not sure he has enough left in him to push the container open, struggles against the weight of the lid. He uses every drop of strength he has left, tells himself he has to do this one last thing for her. Manages to get it to move the top just bit but then it slides back in place and he can’t hang on any longer. Falls to the ground, completely shattered. 

I’m sorry, Carrie, I fucked it up again, he thinks with his last thread of consciousness. Lies there shaking in fevered pain, hopes for a quick death as he finally slips into the dark. 

*

Carrie walks away from the station, both Laura’s and Jonas’ words still echoing in her ear. As much as she dislikes Laura, the reporter was right. The only way to get to the documents now is through the CIA. Which leaves her with only one possibility. 

But she also can’t shake the foreboding feeling she has about leaving Jonas to deal with Quinn, knows that her nice guy high priced lawyer is way out of his depth. And all she can do is tell herself that Jonas is a perfectly capable adult, that Quinn is barely mobile at the moment. Which she knows is just denial, a way of forcing herself forward. Because going back is just never an option for her, she has to see this through. 

So she tells herself Quinn will be fine, that Jonas will get him to the hospital. And that the only way to keep both of them safe is by solving this problem, find out who tried to kill them.

Fuck, Carrie thinks. It’s been a long time since she’s felt this conflicted, had to make such difficult decisions. Jonas, Quinn, Saul, the documents that started it all. Yet the one thing she knows for certain is she has to get back to Frannie, get the most important piece of her life back. And the only way is by figuring this out, getting her hands on the documents. 

It all just keeps coming back to the fucking documents. And Carrie can feel her old drive pushing through, reminds her how strong it can be, why it always won out over everything else. 

So she takes a deep breath, tells herself she has to do this for Frannie, makes herself focus on the plan. Sets her mind on reaching Saul, stops at a convenience store, picks up a pack of Black Jack. 

Walking towards his hotel, Carrie bites her lip, looks around anxiously for any tails or suspicious behaviour. She’s nervous about seeing Saul, especially after how their last encounter went. But it has to be done, her last resort.  
 All Carrie can do is tell herself that it will all work out. That she will talk to Saul and he will help her when he understands how dire her situation is, her desperation level. And then she will be able to get back, relieve Jonas of his duties, do her best to take care of Quinn. 

That is if he hasn’t escaped from the hospital by then, disappeared on her yet again.


	16. 5.6.1

Carrie walks towards the abandoned garage, the echoes of her conversation with Saul still in her mind. Part of her still can’t believe how cold he was about the whole thing, that he wouldn’t listen to her at all. She had really thought he would come through for her when he realized the gravity of the situation, that her life was at stake. And it had been crushing to watch him walk away, not give a shit about her at all. Leaving her with no options, no one left to turn to. 

And now she has to deal with Quinn and Jonas, hopes that Jonas managed his part without too much difficulty, that Quinn didn’t cause any major damage in her absence. 

Carrie takes a breath, enters the garage. Walks in and sees Jonas cleaning up; her eyes instantly drawn to Quinn’s empty blood-soaked bed.

“Where is he?” she asks, praying silently that the answer involves an ambulance, the hospital. 

But even as she asks, a sense of dread overtakes her - that nagging feeling she’d been experiencing all night. The answer isn’t going to be good, that much she is sure of. 

“I don’t know, he slipped out after you left,” Jonas says casually. “He started bleeding again, badly.”

Carrie swears to herself, knows she should have expected this; that she shouldn’t have left Quinn with Jonas, that Jonas never stood a chance. And now Quinn’s many hours gone, trying not to be found.

She exhales irritably, turns to start the search, mind full of self recrimination, high anxiety. 

“Where you going?” Jonas asks, as if it’s not obvious.

“Well someone has to try and find him,” she says, already going through possibilities in her head. Fucking Quinn and his stubbornness, propensity for self-sacrifice. She isn’t going to let him get away with this, has to find him and make sure he’s okay.

 “Is that what you think? I didn’t even try?” Jonas replies testily. “I called every hospital, every police station. I walked the goddamned street. No one has seen him in the last twenty hours. Which by the way is how long you’ve been gone.” 

“Well, he can’t just vanish,” Carrie retorts, sure that she could find him, just needed to look in the right places. Has found him before when he didn’t want to be found. 

“He went off to die, Carrie,” Jonas says darkly. “My guess is he’s done just that.” 

Carrie stares, trying to take in what Jonas is telling her. Her mind refuses to believe it, yet she has nothing to say. Just knows she’s fucked things up like always, that she’s lost Quinn yet again.

When she doesn’t say anything, Jonas yammers on about how he tried to do things her way, that he wanted to help but things have just gotten worse and worse. 

“And this, this craziness we find ourselves in,” he spits out. “It’s exactly what you swore you wanted to leave.” 

The thing is, Carrie’s still stuck on the thought of Quinn running off to die, has mostly been staring blankly while Jonas goes on and on. Fuck, she thinks. Fuck fuck fuck. 

Quinn, seriously bleeding, trying not to be found. Her without any resources, no one to turn to, a kill order on her head. It’s not like she asked for any of this, had been perfectly happy with her slightly boring Berlin life. 

“You think I want this?” she exclaims, can’t believe he would even suggest it. 

“Show me you don’t before anyone else gets hurt,” Jonas replies. “It’s time to go to the authorities.” 

Carrie feels her brain about to explode, wonders how he can still not get it, that there is no one she can go to. She’s not even supposed to be alive, much less making fucking police reports about hacked documents and missing assassins. 

“What authorities?” she asks, incredulous. 

“Ask them for protection,” Jonas continues, still without a single clue. 

“What authorities?!” she asks again, louder.

“Any of them, all of them, whatever,” he replies stupidly, obstinately.

“I can’t,” she argues. “I don’t know who to trust.” 

“Trust me,” Jonas yells. “Because this is no way to live.” 

Fuck, Carrie thinks. She can’t remember the last time she was so at a loss. She’s pissed off at Jonas for being so dense, unable to understand. But she also knows it’s just who he is, that she picked him for many of the qualities that now make him useless to her, a hindrance that questions her every move.

And the thing is she does trust him, just not with anything of this nature. This is her territory, the kind of shit her life has been rife with. So if Jonas still can’t understand that being the target of unidentified and powerful people means she can’t go to any authorities then there’s nothing else she can do. 

Jonas walks off, grabs his jacket.

“I’m going home now,” he says, back to his measured calmness. “And I hope you’ll come with me.” 

Carrie stares at him, doesn’t know what to say, how she feels. She still can’t comprehend Jonas’ naivety about the situation, that he doesn’t get it yet. She can’t go back to the house with him without endangering them both. And even if she could, she still has to look for Quinn first, make sure he hasn’t done something incredibly stupid. 

“Are you coming or not?” he asks.

And still she doesn’t have any words. Knows she doesn’t want to lose Jonas to this mess, that she can’t stand the thought of him walking out on her right now. Especially after she just lost both Saul and Quinn, is on her own yet again.

Yet obviously she can’t just go home with him, needs to either find the documents or figure out another way to stay alive. If he could just understand the seriousness of the situation, why the mere suggestion of returning to their home is completely absurd at the moment. 

Jonas starts walking away before she can come up with a reply and she grabs his arm to make him stop, turn him around. 

“No, okay, okay, wait, wait,” she stammers out, trying to buy time. 

“I’ve been waiting,” he replies, in his pissed off voice. 

Carrie nods, tries to gather her thoughts and put something reasonable into words. 

“I know,” she says, still stalling. 

She looks around, desperately trying to come up with something to say, a way to explain what’s going on in her head at the moment. 

“Look, you’ve been sitting here thinking about this,” she explains. “I, I just walked through the door. Please, give me some time.” 

This at least seems to get through to him and he doesn’t say anything, just continues to watch her, anger still in his eyes. 

It’s a relief not to be arguing for just a moment but the pause in the action just allows her to register everything that’s happening, absorb the stark facts about the situation. It’s the same thing all over again, Carrie thinks. Losing everyone at once. Jonas walking away, Saul not even willing to listen, Quinn running off, bleeding and ill. 

Tears come to her eyes and she wipes one away, tries to blink the others back. It’s too much, all at once. Especially after two years of stability, of feeling loved, of being safe. 

“I just talked to Saul, I thought he would help me but he won’t,” she says, hopes Jonas sees why she’s so lost at the moment. “He won’t help me find those documents.” 

“Shut up about these documents, about these...” Jonas hollers, flips out before she’s even done her sentence. “I don’t care about these goddamned documents. Quinn walked out that door bleeding to death to protect you, Carrie. Does that register?” 

Carrie just stares, isn’t sure it registers at all. She’s still in shock from all of it, absolutely can’t stand the thought of Quinn dying to save her, knows she should have anticipated his stupid fucking devotion to her. 

Really, she doesn’t know what to say but she doesn’t want to lose Jonas this way either, watch him walk away. 

“Please,” she says desperately, hoping against hope he’ll suddenly understand. That she needs someone to stay with her, be on her side. Help her through all her fear, her desperation. So she can figure her way out of this, find a way back to her daughter. 

“What?” Jonas asks, no comprehension at all in his expression. “What?” 

If he doesn’t get by now then she can’t explain it to him, Carrie realizes. Jonas is a good man, a stand up guy. But unable to comprehend certain realities, already far past his breaking point. 

So she doesn’t say anything at all, just watches as Jonas turns, walks towards the door. And she realizes that this could be it, the end to two of the happiest years of her life. 

“So that’s it?” Carrie asks. “You’re leaving?” 

“Yeah, that’s it,” Jonas replies tiredly. “I’m done.” 

And then he walks out the door, leaves her completely alone yet again. 

*

It’s dark in the room, just a scant light filtering in through the curtains when his eyes flutter open, his body indicating a desperate need. 

Only half conscious still, Quinn sees the bottle, fills it with relief as his mind tries to catch up with being awake, alive. 

He realizes he feels relatively well, isn’t burning with fever anymore, the pain of the bullet wound dulled a bit by morphine. Which means it’s time to test his body, get a grip on his current situation.

Slowly he pushes himself into a sitting position, grunts with pain but keeps on going. Grabs onto a chair for support as he hauls himself to his feet, stops to take a breather, gasping at the effort. 

It takes him another long moment to locate his clothing, struggle it on. Enough effort to leave him winded and lightheaded, leaning against the wall for support.

Fuck, he feels weak, Quinn thinks. But alive, improving. Even though he’s not entirely sure how he feels about surviving his last ditch effort to protect Carrie. It hadn’t all been fever-driven desperation making him desire the bottom of the river. 

Fuck, he thinks again. Carrie. He wonders what the hell happened to her after he took off, if she found the documents, if she was still wandering around Berlin with a kill order on her head. 

Quinn briefly thinks about looking for her, then mentally slaps himself for the thought. He’s still a liability in his state, and he certainly can’t draw more attention to her by looking for her if she’s still there. Which means he can only pray that she’s safe, that she disappears before the Russians figure out she’s alive. 

There’s nothing there for you, he tells himself. You did your job, gave her a way out. At no point was she supposed to be taking care of him, running her fingers through his hair. That was only going to lead to disaster, mutual devastation. Especially as he is now, unable to feel much of anything except existential despair. 

He can’t tell if his continued existence is just a cruelty now, or if he’s at all thankful for his good samaritan, the care he’s gotten. Really still can’t believe it, that he was carried off the street and treated for his injury. Must have been given blood, serious antibiotics. 

All this, and he’s still not sure he’s glad to be alive. Is certain that he doesn’t deserve it in any way, can’t figure out why someone with so much death on his hands would be saved, given another chance. 

But now that he’s likely to live, there’s nothing to do but accept his fate, try to convince himself he has unfinished business with the world. So Quinn pushes on, manages to shuffle through the door. Then concentrates on staying upright on his shaky legs, makes his way slowly to the bathroom. Pours his piss into the toilet then turns to wash his hands, take a look at himself in the mirror. 

He looks about as shitty as he feels, pale and weak, still covered in fever sweat. But his wound has been sutured well, a drainage tube inserted. Still infected and angry but a shitload better than it had been, Quinn thinks. His good samaritan obviously had some serious medical skill, knew what he was doing. 

Quinn’s reflecting again on the unlikelihood of having his life saved by a back alley doctor when a voice comes up through the grating, speaking German. Something about humiliation, people dying in the thousands, there in Berlin.   Quinn realizes right away what he’s hearing, that he’s somehow stumbled onto some terrorist plot. Fuck, he thinks. Of course. He just can’t get away from this shit, is somehow cosmically bound to violence, death. 

Even worse, his saviour shows up just then, inadvertently announces their presence to the plotters below. Quinn tries to slide away from the man’s concern, create some cover by telling him to get his ‘friends’ to be careful, close up the vent. 

Still, when they walk by the stairs, Quinn sees one of the plotters glaring up at him. It’s not hard to read the anger, suspicion in the man’s expression as they meet eyes, trade silent messages. 

Fuck, Quinn thinks again. He does not feel well enough to be dealing with a pack of pissed off jihadis, doesn’t want to get the doctor mixed up in whatever’s going on either. 

The truth is he can’t do much more than stay on his feet, shuffle slowly with support. Is already exhausted from this trip to the bathroom, enough so that the malicious attention of an enemy combatant merits only minimal concern at the moment. So Quinn just looks away from the angry jihadi, focuses on putting on foot in front of the other, walks away from the confrontation. 

He’s sweaty, weak by the time they make it back into the doctor’s apartment. Collapses on the bed still in his clothing, relishes the feeling of the cool pillow against his fevered skin. 

“You should not be walking yet,” the doctor says with a sigh. “It is not safe for you.” 

Quinn barely hears the words yet understands the double meaning. Thinks to himself how nothing is safe when he’s around, that his presence only ever leads to death, destruction. 

Which lands his mind right back on the cause of all his misfortune of late, that last gasp of light, flickering in the darkness. Unbidden, his treasonous mind fires up the memory of her fingers in his hair, the concern in her expression. And though he wants to resist it, he can’t help but relive the feeling; falls back to darkness with the ghost of Carrie’s touch against his feverish brow.


	17. 5.6.2

The door closes, leaves Carrie as alone as she’s ever been. And in the moment she is completely lost, unsure of everything. 

Saul not giving half a shit that someone had tried to kill her, unwilling to help her, even listen to what she had to say. 

Jonas walking away with her life still in danger, no one left to trust. 

And then Quinn. The only one on her side, risking everything to protect her. 

Her eyes are drawn to the blood soaked cot and Carrie walks over, makes herself look, almost gags at the metallic tang still caught in the air. 

“Fuck,” she mutters, trying to shake away the tears as they form. Quinn is resourceful, stubborn to the extreme. A difficult quarry even when injured, weak. 

But she still has to try, thinks he had to have left some sort of trail. And looking for him gives her something to do, a way to keep her mind off why he’s gone, how it’s her fault he’s in this position at all. 

So Carrie takes a breath, blows it out. Tries to think like Quinn, bleeding out, desperate. 

He must have taken off while Jonas was on the phone, but wouldn’t have had the time to get out the door, far enough away before Jonas chased after him. So he would have just opened the door, hid somewhere in the building until Jonas was far enough away, chasing a phantom. 

Carrie shakes her head, reminds herself how fucking stupid it was to leave Quinn with Jonas. Her ‘good guy’ never had a chance. This is all on her, she thinks. She should have known. 

But it’s not the time to self-flagellate, not while there’s still a chance of finding him. Carrie looks around, sees the weapon in the gun case. Moved but not taken. A bunch of zip ties, the kind he used to strap her wrists to the cot. 

Jesus. Had that really only been two days ago? She had really been scared of him for a moment there. But of course he was still Quinn. Out to protect her, the only way he knows how.

She tries not to think about what Jonas said, has to believe that Quinn’s managed to hole up somewhere, somehow kidnapped a doctor to fix him up. Though in her heart she knows exactly how far he would go to protect her, that he wouldn’t think twice about sacrificing himself. 

Fuck, Carrie thinks. Walks out of the dim building into the incongruous daylight of the street. Pictures Quinn standing there, weak from his escape effort. He would have only been able to walk a short distance before needing a rest, she thinks. Mentally sorts out a perimeter of the area, then starts walking it methodically, focusing on dark nooks in alleyways, derelict building entrances. 

Eventually she spots a small opening, between two buildings. Some dark smears on the ground, the building wall. 

She can’t help but imagine him there, alone and in pain. Thinks again how she should never have left him; that she didn’t get anything from the meeting, lost so much as a result.

“Fuck, Quinn,” she mutters in frustration. Why did he have to be so fucking gallant, saving her over and over with his taciturn caring? She didn’t deserve it, especially not now, after getting him shot, letting him run off. 

She puts herself in his place again, tries to think what a desperate Quinn would do. And though she doesn’t want to believe the answer she comes to, Carrie knows it’s probably the truth. 

So she walks her way over to the river, towards the canal. There’s a stretch of it that’s dimly lit in the night, near enough that Quinn could have made it. 

Even in the day this part of the canal is quiet as Carrie walks by, looking for something, anything. There’s nothing obvious, no trail of blood, nothing that says he was there at all. But she thinks again about what Jonas said, that Quinn went off to die, wonders why he seemed so sure. 

What could Quinn have said to make Jonas so sure of his intentions? Carrie shakes her head, doesn’t want to believe the obvious. That they talked about her, that Quinn tried to convince Jonas to walk away, let him die. Which straight-laced Jonas would never do, even consider. 

And now she’s here, wandering along the river, desperately trying to avoid thinking that Quinn could be there too, too deep to be found. 

For fucks sake, she thinks. She’s really fucked this up. All of this, it’s all somehow on her. And either Quinn’s at the bottom of the river or he’s holed up somewhere, doesn’t want to be found. Maybe still bleeding out, alone, in need of help. 

Carrie feels the tears forming, isn’t sure why she’s still walking the canal as if she’s going to miraculously find him, a day after he disappeared. Still, she hates not being able to do anything, being powerless. So she walks and cries, wipes away angry tears. At herself, at her circumstance, at Quinn for being so goddamned obstinately self-sacrificing. 

And then she sees it, or sees something at least. At first she can’t quite place it, just knows something’s out of place. Pattern recognition, incongruent objects. A cinder block on the edge of the pier, away from the stack of them by a good twenty feet. There could be a million reasons for the block to be away from the others. And yet, Carrie knows he was there, reads Quinn all over this. 

The tears really fall then, thinking of him like that, so desperate. She failed him yet again, should have just fucking stayed. But she had just convinced herself he would be okay, because she couldn’t accept it any other way. Because she’s fucking selfish, can only ever think of her needs.

Carrie sits beside the concrete block, sees a single zip tie lying abandoned beside it and sobs even harder, feels all her frustration and regret let loose. He was going to die for her and she almost let him do it, still may have. He had been gone so long she’d forgotten the intensity of his presence, his unwavering commitment. The exact opposite of good guy Jonas, all his civilian pussyfooting. 

It had been unnerving, remembering Quinn, how it is with him around. Touchy, volatile. That explosiveness she’s trying to get away from. Even though she’s somehow just drawn to it, like it’s part of her very essence. 

I’m sorry Quinn, I really fucked it up, Carrie thinks yet again as she sobs over the lonely concrete block. You were right, I should have just fucking left before any of this happened. 

The only consolation is that the cinder block is still there, the zip tie too. Of course there could have been two. But it seems unlikely, considering the state he would have been in. So what made him leave? 

Carrie tries to stop crying, heaves through a few deep breaths. Maybe there’s still a chance, she thinks. And sitting around fucking crying about it isn’t helping anyone. 

So she pushes herself back to her feet, starts to walk the area looking for anything else out of place. Tells herself there’s still hope, that she knows him, his determination in all things. Something made him get up, keep struggling on. 

Carrie goes on, determined to figure it out, find out what happened to him. She walks and walks, in circles all around the area, searching for anything, any hint of her dying friend. Four hours of endless alleyways and slightly ajar doors that lead to nothing, not another shred of evidence he’d been there at all. 

It’s then Carrie realizes she’s about to pass out from low blood sugar, hasn’t taken her medication in far too long. And of course the tears start again then, at the thought of abandoning the search, of giving up. 

The rational side of her knows there’s nothing else she can do there, that Quinn isn’t going to found if he doesn’t want to be. It’s what he does, what he’s been doing for the past two years really. Yet she doesn’t want to admit defeat, let him do this for her. 

Frustration spills down her face; streams of guilt, salty with remorse. She’s lost her daughter, her mentor, her boyfriend, and now Quinn, who can’t be defined in a word. Her only friend really, someone she leaned on for so long. And all Carrie can do is shake her head in lament as she finally gives up, walks back to Quinn’s lair, as lost as she’s ever been. Thinking how Quinn was right after all, that she should just leave, get the hell out of there before she fucks things up for anyone else. 

*

After the confrontation with Hajik, Quinn knows it’s time to go. He’s already caused the doctor enough grief, still can’t quite believe how much the man has done to save him. So even though he’s weak as a kitten, head still pounding from being punched, he has to leave.

“I have to go,” Quinn says as the doctor helps him back into the room, sits him down on the bed. “I’m sorry I’ve caused you so much trouble.” 

The doctor argues of course, tells him he’s not well enough, that he needs to rest, shouldn’t even be out of bed. 

But Quinn shakes his head, holds his ground. Stands shakily, ready to walk out. 

“Really, I can’t stay,” he says. “You’ve already done too much for me.” 

Hussein shakes his head, sighs. Seems to see that he isn’t going to win this battle. 

“Sit down,” the doctor says. “I will get some things you will need.” 

He grabs a bag, starts filling it with medical supplies. 

“I’ll manage,” Quinn says, sitting down again, glad to be off his feet. 

He swallows a vial of the morphine the doctor passes to him, puts the rest in the bag. 

“You are not well enough to leave,” the doctor says. “I will talk to that crazy man. You should stay at least one more night. I’ll sleep outside the door. I’m not scared of Hajik.” 

He flashes the knife in his waistband, as if that’s going to make Quinn feel any better about the situation. In no way would he allow this man to be threatened due to his presence. What’s already happened is more than too much, affected this man who seems to be doing nothing but good deeds. Who has already done too much for him. 

“Thank you,” Quinn says, a bit surprised at how sincerely he means it. Though he’s not sure what to make of his continued existence, he can’t help but appreciate how much the doctor has done for him. “Thank you for taking care of me.” 

“You have somewhere to go, I hope?” the doctor asks. “Someone to look after you?” 

“I do,” Quinn replies, surprised to realize it might be true. Though the thought of her taking care of him is fraught with danger, he can’t help but still feel her hands on him, remember the worried look in her eyes. 

Though of course he knows he will end up looking after himself, hiding out on his own. Shouldn’t be near her if she’s to be safe. But just the thought that she would do it for him, that she already did. It was enough to make him remember, feel all those things he’s been trying to bury so long. 

Quinn’s lost for a moment in the thought of her before being interrupted by one of the jihadis, who asks him where he’s going. 

Quinn takes a breath, knew it wouldn’t be easy. Not after the earlier scene, where he’d shamed Hajik in front of his men. 

“You’re here to stop me,” Quinn says darkly, pushes himself slowly to his feet. 

“I know you’re not a spy,” the man says. 

“What does your emir say?” Quinn asks, knows the answer already. 

“Hajik? He wants to execute you,” the man replies. “No one supports him.” 

Quinn doesn’t say anything, tries to calculate his odds of survival if he is attacked by Hajik while he’s leaving. If the rest of the jihadis don’t jump in then he has a shot, even in his weakened state. 

The jihadi asks him about Syria, if he thinks they’re being watched by German police. 

“What do you think?” Quinn replies, thinks the answer should be obvious. 

The man pauses for a moment. “Hajik is no emir,” he finally replies. 

Then the jihadi turns and walks away, leaving Quinn standing there wondering what the hell he’s gotten himself into; why his life always seems to gravitate towards darkness, untenable circumstances. 

*

It’s night by the time the doctor walks him to the door, shakes his hand on the stoop. 

“God be with you,” he says, with the sincerity of a good man. 

Quinn nods, even though he knows that no god would shower favour upon him - not after all that he’s done. Then he looks up, sees that he may still get what he ultimately deserves. 

Hajik and his men are waiting for him, threat clear in their stances. Quinn exhales loudly, quickly thinks through his options. Decides to play it as cool as he can, try to just walk by without any problems. Still he also braces himself for action, knows that it will most likely come to that and he is still weak, though fortified by morphine at the moment. 

Quinn approaches slowly, looks Hajik in the eye the whole time. Stops a respectable distance away, tries to appear sincere. 

“I’m sorry if I caused you any trouble,” he says. “I’m leaving now. I have no quarrel with you, man.” 

Quinn starts walking towards Hajik again, slowly, as unthreateningly as he can. 

“Just let me pass,” he says, thinks for a moment he may have actually gotten away with it. “Okay?” 

But then Hajik speaks, his voice low, dense with threat. 

“I’m going to cut your prick off and shove it down your throat,” he says, pulling out a knife and turning to face Quinn. 

Hajik takes a few swings, enough for Quinn to assess the man’s ability. It wouldn’t even be a contest if he wasn’t operating at quarter strength, barely able to walk, much less fight. But as it is, Quinn barely manages to twist away from the jihadist’s knife swinging, gets sliced in the arm, feels the burn of a fresh cut. 

It’s only a superficial wound though and now Quinn’s fired up, his adrenaline pumping. He faces Hajik, on his toes, ready for the man’s next clumsy thrust. 

When Hajik swings the knife again Quinn dodges, then grabs his attacker by the knife hand, twists until he drops the weapon. 

Hajik comes up attacking, knees Quinn in the gut and then punches him right in his gunshot wound, sending blinding streaks of pain through his body, straight into his head. Quinn yells out, sees bright flashes for a moment, tells himself to use the pain to push him on, power his body. 

And now when he faces Hajik again, Quinn’s ready to end it. The man has no weapon and Quinn only needs one opening to relieve him of his life. So he slips away from Hajik’s first attempt, then grabs the jihadi’s arm, puts all his remaining energy into the blow. 

Quinn’s hand hits his assailant’s throat and he feels the crunch of cartilage caving in. Knows that the job is done, feels relief flood through him as he stumbles away, collapses into a nearby chair, his entire body throbbing with every pulse. 

He hears Hajik finally hit the ground as the doctor comes running up to him, examines the wound on his arm. Quinn is so breathless, pain-ridden that he doesn’t even resist, lets the doctor look him over. 

The other jihadi, the one he’d talked to earlier in the doctor’s apartment approaches as well, tells Quinn that he has to stay another night, that he will be safe now. 

And Quinn’s so weak, flooded with pain that his only response is to lay his head on the table, give in to exhaustion. He is in a world of hurt, his body seizing, falling back into shock. So he doesn’t fight it when the doctor helps him to his feet, supports him as he stumbles back into the building, up to the doctor’s apartment. 

He’s barely conscious by the time the doctor pours him into bed, covers him in blankets, then goes to get his suture kit. Quinn shivers uncontrollably, feels blood seeping from both his bullet wound and the new cut to his arm but is almost catatonic from exhaustion, shock, blood loss. He wonders if the arm wound nicked an artery, or if he’s just so weak that his body is shutting down. 

The doctor comes back over, gives Quinn a local anesthetic both in his back and his arm then goes to work suturing both wounds, sighing sadly as he sews.

“I’m sorry for causing you all this trouble,” Quinn mumbles as the pain seeps away into the pseudo warmth of medication. 

The doctor shakes his head, sighs again. 

“It is not your fault,” he says. “Hajik is a crazy man, you were only defending yourself. 

Quinn nods, knows it’s best to let it drop. The doctor finishes the stitches in silence, then covers the wounds with new dressings. 

“You should rest now,” he says to a barely conscious Quinn. “You need to heal.”

Of course the doctor doesn’t know anything, Quinn thinks, his thoughts free floating between states of consciousness. It is all his fault, he doesn’t deserve to heal.

 Even this - this doctor, maybe the last good samaritan left. Just another innocent, good-hearted man getting grief for saving him. Maybe because he doesn’t deserve to be saved - deserves to die, as much as anyone, more than most.

Just now, he killed another man. It seems to be something he can’t get away from. Violence, darkness. It follows him around. How else did he get caught up in this situation? It’s his kind of luck, true karma. 

He had his life saved by a good man, when he’d been trying his best to sacrifice himself, do what was right for her. It should have meant something, And still it lead to violence, terror plots, death.

It just reinforces the thought that this is all there is for him, all that he can ever have. The darkness of a shadow life, the endless cycle of violence, pain, self-loathing. 

It’s all he’s ever known, all he ever was. 

Yet he forgets it when he’s with her, is someone else altogether. One looking for life, light. It’s the strength of her will, her being, he thinks. He’s so close to unconsciousness Quinn forgets this isn’t allowed, that he’s in dangerous territory. Lets her flood into his mind, lets himself remember. 

Go, be safe, he tells her silently. Hopes against hope that she’s taken his advice, gotten the hell out of dodge. Because that’s all he has left, his very last care in the world.


	18. 5.7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok, trying to get this fic finished. one chapter per episode til the end (except for ep 8, cause nothing happens, ha.)

Quinn’s finally heading out, feels halfway alive again after sleeping for fifteen hours, then sucking back another vial of morphine. He’s at least well enough to leave, stop causing trouble for Hussain. Figures he’ll just hole up again until the infection’s gone; hide out until he has an idea of what to do with himself.

But then, of course, life hits him head on with his usual type of circumstance, a choice of dark or light. 

The jihadi that had been interested in him before, the new leader of the group, comes to the door, tries to convince him to guide them into Syria. Says they’re taking his advice, joining up with ISIS in their ‘homeland’. 

And at first Quinn wants absolutely nothing to do with it, wants them to go on their merry jihadi way without a glance back. Syria was the last place he wanted to be, especially in his current condition. But then the guy mentions his uncle, the one who’s funding this venture. 

Abu al-Khaduli. Deputy Emir of the Islamic State. Someone who had been on their list in Syria, one they could never get close to. 

Quinn shrugs. 

“Never heard of him,” he says casually, thoughts starting to turn in his head. 

The jihadi keeps talking, says something about choosing between a lot of money and getting found by Hajik’s brothers; that they’re leaving that night. But by then Quinn’s already walking out the door, wondering why it is that this happens to him. Ever since he was approached by the group way back when - every avenue out became a road back in. So much so that he doesn’t know if he asks for it somehow, or if there really is such a thing as fate. 

Quinn walks out into the daylight, squints uncomfortably as he gathers his thoughts. He can go to Dar with this or he can walk away, let it slide. Since his op with Saul is over, Quinn’s existing in a grey area, could conceivably disappear for awhile before anyone at the Agency notices. Hide out, rest. Quietly make sure she got away, that nothing happened to her. 

But, if he said nothing, did nothing. She would find him at his garage eventually. And then what? Whatever possibility he ever had with her is long over. He is as lost as he’s ever been, can barely stand his own existence. He will not saddle her with his shortcomings, the darkness that he keeps running back to. 

She is his undoing. But he will not be hers. 

Quinn takes a painful breath, thinks of all the forks in the road. Life presents him with paths and something drives him to take the one away from himself, from what’s left of his humanity. He’s down to shreds after Syria, after this operation with Saul. 

The things he’s done, the sentences he’s executed. He killed a man just the previous night, brought trouble to Hussain’s door. He leaves death in his wake, a trail of kills, tears.

At one point he wanted more than that, to be more than a killing machine. At one point he wanted her. He wanted a life, someone to love.

But what he wants and what he can have are two very different things. Two years ago fear and duty told him to take off for Syria, made him run. 

And now duty tells him to add Khadouli to his list of kills, that life didn’t present him with this chance for no reason. 

Yet life also put Carrie’s name in that box, made him remember what it was like to feel. He had almost been surprised she still affected him in the same way, had spent so much time actively not thinking about her. Almost surprised, but not really. 

She just always burned in him, however hard he tried to forget. He had always hung on to a simmering hope of seeing her again. And, in the end, all that got him was another bullet wound, more trouble for her. 

Quinn shakes his head, exhales irritably. 

His continued presence in Berlin is a complication in many ways. Not that he fears Hajik’s brothers, any of that bullshit. But the SVR would still be looking for him and the CIA wouldn’t want evidence of their blown drop box operation just hanging around. 

Most of all, he can’t lead anyone to her, not while her life is in danger. And he knows their paths will cross, that it’s inevitable for the two of them. Intertwined lives, mostly in moments of peril.

So. It’s best to run, fall in step with duty. The invisible string binding him to the mission, drilled into him since the start. Loyalty to the group, to something beyond himself. Even though he knows where his loyalty really lies, that he is hers til the end. 

Quinn nods to himself, decision made. Sighs wearily at his choice, tells himself it’s what needs to be done. 

The fork lies in front of him. And again he takes a step into the dark. 

*

The lines on her computer screen scroll seemingly endlessly. Document after document of obscure intel, defunct operations, new protocols. Hundreds of files, important information. And yet nothing that has anything to do with her, nothing that’s looked familiar at all. 

Each useless file just adds to the ever-building anxiety, the feeling of death creeping closer every minute she doesn’t find anything. It’s nearly overwhelming, especially after being out of the danger game for so long. It’s hard to be so alone again. 

Carrie sighs, closes her eyes for a minute. Blinks back tired tears and turns away from the computer screen. 

Alone. As always. 

She can’t help but miss Jonas, his stabilizing presence. Even though he has proven himself useless in this type of situation, stubborn and uncomprehending. 

And then there’s Quinn. The one she really needs right now, someone to throw ideas off of, someone who gets the problem. 

Carrie bites her lip, has been doing her best not to think about what happened to Quinn, why she hasn’t been able to find any sign of him. Yet, her hand automatically reaches for her phone and she starts dialing the numbers again, her twice daily rounds of cop shops, hospitals, morgues. She limits herself to that or else she would call hourly. Which only made her more anxious, the people at the other end more irritated. 

It’s all so fucking futile but she has to do something or she’d go even crazier than she already has. So she calls and calls, all the while knowing that Quinn would never let himself be found, that she shouldn’t have lost him in the first place. 

All that guilt of not taking care of him flows together with the constant threat of death, the absence of her daughter. Endless eddies of anxiety in her mind, through her entire body. 

This is what goes on in her mind as Carrie dials each number in succession, listening blankly as they all say no. No there’s no report of any unidentified male matching the description of her ‘friend’, no there’s nothing they can do. 

Carrie hangs up the last call, thinks of course there’s nothing they can do. She’s the one that should have done something, the one that fucked this all up. She had made him stay, take her to the drop. Pushed him in that way she does, falling back into the familiarity of it so easily. 

Fuck, she thinks with a sigh. Looks up at the ceiling, tries not to wonder where he could be at the moment, if he’s even still alive. She’s been desperately trying to avoid the guilt that comes with thinking about him, the overwhelming feeling that everyone around her eventually gets hurt because of her. 

Unsurprisingly, it’s not that hard to avoid the thoughts when she’s absorbed in the files, trying to solve the mystery of who’s trying to kill her. She’s always been like that, able to completely focus, put everything else out of mind. Especially when she’s in the thick of things, her own life on the line. 

But these moments in between, when her concentration falters for a minute or two. She lets herself have those guilty thoughts. Thinks about Frannie, about Quinn. Her daughter. And her... friend. 

Of course he is both less and more than that, his role in her life always undefinable to her. There is a closeness with him she’s never had with anyone else, a kindred understanding of the other. She knows what lengths he will go to in order to protect the few things he holds in his heart. And she knows she’s in there, has always just been scared to death of what it could mean. 

She remembers what Jonas said to her in the garage, that Quinn left to protect her. Of course it fucking registered, she thinks. But she knows he understands her need to figure it out, save herself. Would never have brought her along to the drop otherwise.

Of all people, Quinn would get what she is doing, why she needs to do it. Would probably be royally pissed off if she spent her hours fruitlessly looking for him, putting herself in more danger with each passing minute. 

She thinks again about calling Astrid, asking her to look for Quinn. It’s what she should have done in the first place, though she had been so panicked by his disappearance and the thought of losing Frannie forever that it hadn’t come to mind right away. 

And now. Well, if Quinn is gone he doesn’t want to be found. She’s had to respect this line in him before, knows it’s part of who he is. She’s also fought against it, found him before it was too late. 

It’s part of her reluctance to call Astrid, the thought that it should be up to her to find him, that it’s her fucking job and not anyone else’s. Which sounds ridiculous but is still true. Also, calling Astrid up and admitting that she lost him while he was stubbornly bleeding out was just going to make her feel guilty as shit yet again. 

Which just makes her a terrible person, a horrible friend. She should have just called right away, confessed her fuck up. But instead she got lost in her own situation, started in on the files, cursorily called around about Quinn on the side. 

And now it’s too late, Carrie thinks. He’s been gone for over forty eight hours now, knows how to disappear. The best she can do for the both of them now is to solve the question of who’s trying to kill her so she can then properly look for him. 

With that, Carrie pushes back the guilt, the anxiety, the fear - tells herself to focus on the problem at hand. That her life, her daughter were at stake. That Quinn is resilient, resourceful, a survivor. 

It’s what she keeps telling herself, the only way to beat back the unbearable guilt, the endless worry. That she just has to figure out this threat to her life and then she will find Quinn, somehow make him understand how sorry she is, that she should never have let him go.


	19. 5.9

He’s running into a tunnel, chasing Carrie, heading straight into a sarin attack. Of course, he thinks. She was supposed to have left but he had known she would never give up so easily. Good thing he had tailed her - it’s like she has an internal magnet for dangerous situations. And of course she’s the only one there, everyone’s last best hope. 

So he runs. Faster than he has in a long time, maybe ever. She will be right there, the first to die if he doesn’t stop this attack, take out Bibi. But he’s weak still, fatigued and panicked, gasping for air. And she’s fucking fast, has always been a runner. 

She disappears into the darkness and he chases her through nothingness, a black hole. Then he sees it. All of a sudden. Bibi, the gas, Carrie running right to it. Quinn instinctively reaches for his gun, but just then he realizes his hands are tied, his mouth gagged. He can’t even yell to her, tell her that he’s there, that she needs to turn around, save herself. 

But then she stops, like she hears his silent plea. Turns, gives him that look that says she’s about to pull a Carrie, that there’s nothing he can do about it. 

He wonders how he can both love and hate it so much, these maneuvers that she pulls. It’s so part of her, what he’s always admired in her. And yet. It also always puts her right in the middle of the action, the likeliest casualty. 

He can tell she’s saying goodbye, wants to scream at her, thinks he can talk her down, that she will stop for him. But he’s still gagged, and he knows she wouldn’t stop anyhow. Just wants to yell at her anyways, make her understand what this means to him, how vehemently he disagrees with what she’s doing. 

And then she turns, runs deeper. He tries to chase her but he trips awkwardly. Falls.

Wakes up on a dirty-tiled floor. Looks around and remembers his living nightmare. It’s better than the dream at least, he thinks. At least he’s the only one in danger here. 

Until the jihadis release the gas, recreate Ghouta in Berlin. 

He’s still their best chance, probably their only one. Even though he’s royally fucked things up for himself. He thinks Qasim can be convinced, that the clear streak of humanity in the quiet jihadi can be used to save the city. Though probably not himself, not without some more divine intervention. 

Quinn blinks himself fully awake, eyes the discarded bottle of water longingly. It’s been over a day since he’s had any and now he vaguely regrets not taking a drink earlier. 

He hears footsteps and then Qasim comes up to him, helps him sit up. Offers him water again. 

This time Quinn nods, drinks back a few gulps. 

“Thank you,” he says, the taste of dust almost out of his mouth. 

“I brought you some food,” Qasim says. “Grapes, dates, figs.” 

Quinn glances at the food, then gets straight to the point. He doesn’t know how long Qasim will listen, and he’s fairly certain time is short. 

“Did you go online?” Quinn asks. 

Qasim pauses, doesn’t say anything. But his eyes give him away easily, the way he freezes at the thought. 

“Hard to watch, isn’t it,” Quinn continues. “Just ordinary people, innocent. Like the ones you’re condemning to death here.” 

“Nobody is innocent,” Qasim replies automatically. “Not when you’re sending soldiers to slaughter Muslims and occupy our lands.”

“Your lands?” Quinn counters. “You were born and raised in Germany.” 

“This country has never been my home,” Qasim retorts. “And never will be.” 

“And that justifies burning it down?” Quinn replies. 

“Terror is the necessary product to a caliphate,” Qasim says automatically, standing up in frustration. 

Quinn knows he’s getting to the young jihadi, that Qasim’s having a hard time justifying his role in mass murder. He has to push it now, make him think hard about his options, let him know there’s a way out for him.

“If the west gives us what we want we won’t have to use the gas at all,” Qasim adds, clearly trying to quell his growing concern with their plan. 

“And what do you want?” Quinn asks, genuinely curious what the group’s demand could be. 

“A set part of Syria and recognition by the UN of the Islamic State,” Qasim states. 

It’s a view into how little Qasim knows about world politics, how things work. That he believes this could actually happen, that ISIS would be legitimized by the UN. His naivety is so obvious, his hope that the world will just give their little group anything at all. 

“That will never happen,” Quinn says, hopes that Qasim can see it’s true. 

Qasim pauses, walks over and squats in front of him. Gives him a look that Quinn can’t quite decipher. 

“It might,” he says seriously. “If we sent them a warning.” 

“What kind of warning?” Quinn asks. 

Qasim’s body language has shifted, from defensive to nervous. It puts Quinn on alert, tells him something big is coming.

“Proof of the weapon,” Qasim answers. “A demonstration.” 

It takes him a split second to get what Qasim’s saying, another to swallow the complete dread that suddenly drops to his gut. It’s possibly the worst way he can think of to die. And for everyone to see. 

Quinn exhales in realization, tries to gather himself.

“So that’s why I’m still alive,” he mutters, familiar numbness taking hold of his emotions. 

Qasim nods, the concern clear in his expression. 

“That’s what you’re building in the next room,” Quinn adds, quickly putting things together in his head. 

Qasim nods again. 

“Yes,” he says.

Quinn steels himself, puts the thought of his own fate aside for the moment. 

“A demonstration will accomplish nothing,” he says truthfully. “Your demands will not be met.” 

“Then the attack will go forward,” Qasim replies, trying to sound sure about it. “And the blood will be on their hands.” 

“No, Qasim. The blood will be on your hands,” Quinn retorts. “The blood of women and children.”

“Whatever happens is Allah’s will,” Qasim argues. 

“Maybe it’s Allah’s will that you stop this,” Quinn fires right back. 

Qasim stops. Looks to be considering this idea and Quinn thinks he might have broken through, gotten past the rote jihadi brainwashing. He has this one chance to get rid of the gas, desperately needs to win Qasim over to his side. 

“Even if I wanted to stop it, how could I?” he asks. “I can’t betray my brothers to the police, I could never do that.” 

It’s the perfect setup, exactly the in that Quinn needs. 

“Forget about the police,” Quinn says. “Get rid of the DF. Without it, Bibi can’t make sarin.” 

“He’ll know it was me,” Qasim counters. 

“Then leave before he finds out,” Quinn replies, trying to be as convincing as he can. “Dump the DF into the ground and walk away, don’t look back.” 

Qasim doesn’t say anything after that, just looks at him with a conflicted expression for a moment before standing up and shaking his head to himself. Then the young jihadi walks away, obviously still trying to decide what to do. 

Leaving Quinn to consider his own fate, what he just figured out. 

He rests his head back against the wall, tries to quell the rising anxiety in his chest. Remembers what he told Qasim earlier about the effects of sarin, how excruciating it is to die in that manner. 

It’s not at all what he should be thinking about at the moment. But he’s still human, if only by a shred. To die from sarin, in front of the entire world. It’s a lot to consider, kind of hard to put out of mind. 

He should have figured it out on his own - had definitely been wondering why the jihadis had bothered to drag him back with them, why they wanted him to come along in the first place. But he had been mostly thinking about the gas, how to save the city from attack, what to say to Qasim. 

But now he has plenty of time to consider his end, make whatever peace he can. And yet there’s no peace in him at all, never has been. His existence a constant struggle of personal identity, self-loathing. 

It’s somehow fitting to have been saved by the doctor, only to die horribly as a result. Like karma striking back, fixing the glitch in the system. 

His life has been about death for so long, for as far back as he can remember. It was what he did, what he was. From the time he was a kid. And right up until he met her. Then everything unraveled. 

She was so fucking alive. So fiery it sparked something in him, lit a flame that nothing has been able to extinguish. Distance, time, concerted effort. He had tried it all. 

And yet, even now she burns in him. He’s facing a grisly death, still can only think about her. 

He wonders how she will react, if she will blame herself. Somehow both wants her to grieve for him, yet not be upset that he’s gone. 

It was my own fault, he silently tells her. I did what I always do. And now I’ve run my way to my end. 

He doesn’t usually let himself think about her, about the past. Has always been one to move on from his mistakes, try to bury them deep. And he’s always known she’s better off without him, that it was selfish to try and hold onto her. 

And yet. For a moment he had let himself believe that he could have something life had never before allowed him. A slice of normalcy, someone to love, someone that loved him back. 

A false glimmer if there ever was one. 

Fuck. He hadn’t thought about *that* in years. Any memory of home, of her, had been strictly forbidden the minute he hit the ground in Syria. 

And yet it’s as true now as it ever was. He had found so much in her. Hope, love, the desire to be a better man.

But it had been too much for him to handle - the realness, the vulnerability of his emotions. He had no practice at it, didn’t like his lack of self-control around her. That she could hurt him so easily, that he would do anything for her. 

He wouldn’t be facing imminent death if he hadn’t saved her in the first place. But then again, there is no situation he can think of in which he would be able to kill her, let her die. He’s as far gone as he’s ever been. And still, she tethers him to humanity. 

And so all roads lead to this, Quinn thinks. Exhales a stale breath. He had always thought he’d die in battle, alone in the desert. That no one would mourn him, except for the group. That no one else would even notice he was gone. 

It’s then he hears her in his mind, saying the words he had simultaneously desperately wanted and did not want to hear. 

“The last two years, everywhere I went I looked for you. I tried to find you. I never stopped thinking about you.” 

Well, you found me Carrie. I was lost on the ground in Syria. I thought I was done. And still, I fucking loved you. 

No regrets, Quinn tells himself firmly. This is all his own fault, a tactical error made in haste, while emotionally and physically weak. He deserves to die for his mistake, it’s what happens when you fuck up in his world. 

And truth be told, he’s been ready to die for awhile now, can’t see the point in going on with his bleak existence. Too much of a chickenshit to ever leave the Agency, endless self-loathing for not being stronger. He had already given up on his one chance to get out years ago now. And there’s no second chances, not for someone like him. 

Still. It’s hard to know the facts of your own death, especially when it’s to be grisly, broadcasted to the world. She will watch him die in a pool of his own bodily fluids, everything out there for her to see. 

He just hopes she sees the truth, what she’ll likely never know. That he died with her in his heart, that his last thought will be of her. 

*

By the time they come for him Quinn’s settled into resigned defeat, knows he’s going to die soon whether or not Qasim gets rid of the DF. Yet he had still hoped for a quick bullet to the brain, some sort of failure in the sarin making process. But then they start filming, walking him towards the camera and any hope he hung onto is gone.

It’s not a long walk, and Quinn thought he was done with thinking, regrets. That he would go to his execution with a blank mind, ready to meet his end. 

And yet, they take over his head, all these little thoughts, realizations. That question of how he ended up in this situation, why he hadn’t just let it go. A shot at life, tossed away for this. 

He had spent the day telling himself it was best it was him, that he gave them their best shot at preventing this thing. That he may have turned Qasim, a chance the attack could still be stopped. 

Quinn wishes he had something to communicate, some way of leading them to him. But he has no idea where he is, where the attack will be. And Dar already knows he was with a nephew of al Kaduya, so once he sees the video they will figure out who Bibi is pretty quickly. 

So maybe he was meant for this. Doing his job until the end, sacrificing this life that never was. 

Better him than someone who didn’t deserve it, Quinn tells himself. 

He tries to keep it rational, but of course there’s fear too. It crawls up his spine, sits at the base of his brain stem. He is going to die in a puddle of his own excrement in front of the entire world. 

And though he knows it will be excruciating, humiliating, that’s not what he’s afraid of. All he cares is it’s the last she’ll see of him, that he’ll never get to explain, say goodbye. 

Yet he also knows that this is the best way. That she will see it, the somehow figure everything out, save everyone in the end. Because that’s who she is, what she does. 

And he’s the one to sacrifice, to do whatever it takes to keep her safe. From the enemy, from herself, from him too. 

So here he is. At the last sacrifice. 

They arrive at the chamber and Quinn looks at the man inside, setting up the apparatus. His guts freeze at the sight, the stark realization of what’s about to happen. 

Qasim is standing there too, makes eye contact. He says an arabic death prayer, then keeps looking at Quinn intently, clearly trying to communicate something. 

“Run,” he whispers. 

Quinn considers it for a moment, thinks there’s no point. But Qasim seems to have an idea, and at worst he ends up in the chamber as planned. 

So Quinn turns and elbows one of the jihadis in the groin, runs towards another room where he’s smacked in the face with an AK-47, ends up in a heap on the ground. Then someone lands on top of him and he feels the sting of an injector in his shoulder, hears Qasim whisper “maybe you will live.” 

Quinn groans, his head ringing as they drag him back to his feet. He wonders what Qasim shot him with, thinks it’s most likely atropine. Which might save him from the worst of the sarin, but will probably just prolong the agony. 

Still, it’s a good sign, he thinks. That Qasim was affected enough to try and save him meant there was a chance he could still stop the attack. Especially now that he’s about to witness in person the way sarin kills. 

They walk him back to the other room, then straight into the gas chamber. Quinn watches anxiously at the door as the hose is hooked up, the valves turned on. 

For the first time in all of this, real fear coils in gut as he hears the gas start to flow. The last instinct of self-preservation, the cold terror of imminent death. 

This is really happening, he thinks to himself.

No amount of mental preparation can really ready you for the end, he knows. But he accepts that there are no more outs now, that the best he can do is meet it face on. 

So Quinn steps away from the door, stands there in front of the camera, looks right at Qasim. This is what it looks like to kill a man, he says with his eyes. Let this blood be on your hands. 

The effects of the gas quickly become apparent, his eyes and mouth watering uncontrollably. But he can still think, his brain sending random last musings along with the signals of panic, asphyxiation. 

And of course, almost all these last thoughts are tinted in blonde, wash through him in that way she does. I still love you, he thinks inexplicably. At least he can take that to the end. 

He says a silent good bye as he’s standing there, blinking rapidly, tamping down the panic. Tells her he’s sorry and he’s not. Terrified yet at peace. 

And then he can’t keep the saliva in his mouth anymore, starts to feel the twitch of nerves dying, his respiratory system shutting down. 

Fuck, this is it, he thinks as he falls to his knees, vomiting violently; everything fading to black.


	20. 5.10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fic hiatus is over, have to finish this off and move on to new stuff. so here we go, s5e10 to the end, carrie's pov. obviously it's pretty traumatic, s5 ending triggers abound!

5.10

When Carrie finally realizes what she’s seeing, she feels her mind shut down, numbed by shock, disbelief. 

It’s not possible, she says to herself even as she watches it in horror. This can’t be happening. 

But it doesn’t stop, she doesn’t wake up from the living nightmare. 

Quinn starts to shake, almost convulse, before it cuts away to the newscaster. Leaves Carrie standing and staring, desperately trying to cling onto denial even as reality begins to slip through the numbness. 

Quinn. Dying from sarin exposure. 

Nine days. 

Carrie stumbles as she turns to flee, get away from the image now burned into her mind. Falls to the ground dazed, absolutely undone, barely able to form conscious thought. Then pushes herself up to her feet shakily, walks towards the door. 

She stops and leans against the doorframe for a moment, still trying to breathe, accept that it was real. The trained operative in her unconsciously pushes her towards action, the need to find out what happened. But right now Carrie just wants to hide away, collapse in tears, mourn for what she’s lost. 

*

She’s halfway to BND headquarters before she even really realizes she’s in a cab, doing what her instinct as an operative demanded of her. And yet her head is still stuck in shock, disbelief. As if it could all somehow still be a dream, if only because she can’t accept it as real. 

It doesn’t make any sense, she keeps saying to herself, desperately trying to hold back the emotional overload that threatens to completely undo her. 

And yet, it does. The deep freeze in her guts tells her it’s her fault, that this is on her. Cosmic payback for her selfishness, the deeds of her past. 

So Carrie stares out the window yet only sees the image of Quinn in her head, burned into her brain for all of eternity now. 

Quinn’s dead. She let him go and now he’s lost to her forever. The only one that was always there for her, that saw her through some of the hardest times in her life. 

Fuck fuck fuck, she thinks. How did this all happen in such a short time? How could she have fucked things up so badly yet again? 

Because she knows it’s her. On multiple levels, in that way that everything is her fault. A human tornado, she brings destruction to everything she touches, everyone in her path. 

And now that her thoughts are starting to move, unfreeze, Carrie feels them spill everywhere all around her. Mashing between Quinn in his dungeon, bleeding out; Astrid’s expression earlier; the images in the video, her stalwart assassin, stoic to the end. 

Unexpectedly the past pushes into the present, memories she’s long forgotten. Meeting him for the first time, resenting his power, his attitude, his smart ass expression. Hospitals, first him then her, then her again. The concern in his eyes, endlessly irritating. What right did he have to care? 

This is why no one cares, why they all desert her. Because it only ends in tragedy, disaster. She used all of him, gave nothing back. He saved her life and she let him die. 

He was seriously injured, bleeding out just nine days ago. Just over a week, yet a seeming eternity. She had told herself that he just disappeared, like he does. That he was hiding out, recuperating. Jonas’ melodramatics were just that, she repeated endlessly. Though of course Quinn would die to save her, she has known this to be true for a long time now. And now he has. Which just got her back to the fact that she was a terrible person, undeserving of his devotion.

She remembers what she told Otto, back when Quinn first disappeared. Knows she could never have taken care of him the way he took care of her, that Quinn did more for her than she could ever repay. And now he’ll never know that she will regret that day forever, that she will never forgive herself for losing him. 

The taxi stops in front of the BND building, knocking Carrie out of her overwhelming thought spiral for a moment. She pays the driver, then pauses as she sees Allison Carr getting into a car with Dar Adal, wonders what the hell is going on. 

Saul and Astrid are exiting the building as Carrie approaches and for a moment she’s not sure if she can face them at all, do what needs to be done. As a operative she needs to see the video, the whole thing. There could be information only visible to her, something to catch his killers.

But to view it in detail, to actually watch him die. She’s not sure she can take it, nearly vomits at the mere thought. Yet Carrie knows she has to see it all, that he deserves that at least. For her to see him to his end, to be with him in the only way she has left. To know exactly what he went through, to understand what she has wrought with her fucking stubbornness. 

“Saul,” she says, her voice already starting to waver. “What the hell? Quinn.”

*

Her eyes burn from horrific images, uncontainable tears. It’s been hours, every second of the video now engraved in her mind. And still there was nothing, no signal, no clues other than the tiles. 

Carrie sits awash in sadness, guilt. Stares at her hands, thinks how she let it happen. 

Astrid pours coffee, brings over a mug. 

“Hey, don’t be so hard on yourself,” she says. “It was worth a try. He just didn’t have enough time to send a signal.”

Carrie wonders at Astrid’s bearing, the empathy and kindness she’s shown since they started watching the video. It’s nothing Carrie expected, especially considering their previous contemptuous dealings. But tragedy, horror has softened the older woman, brought out more understanding and patience than Carrie feels she deserves. 

Because the truth is, she doesn’t deserve anything but total blame. Astrid said it herself earlier. Nine days. To save her own life; at the cost of his.

“He told me to leave it alone,” Carrie says in an attempt to confess her guilt. “He wanted me to get out of Berlin. If only I’d listened.” 

“Carrie,” Astrid interjects, clearly still trying to make excuses for her when there is no way to excuse her actions. 

“No, it’s true,” Carrie replies. Looks up at the other woman, nodding in acceptance of her own faults. She should have just listened for once, done what was best for everyone else. But of course she had to solve the mystery, save her own life. And now she knows the cost of her actions, yet can’t do anything to turn back the clock. 

“Quinn never did anything he didn’t want to,” Astrid says. “And that’s the truth.” 

Of course there’s merit to what Astrid says. Yet Carrie knows how she manipulated him, used his selflessness, his empathy to get what she wanted from him. He would do anything for her, except stay. And she took every advantage, then let him run off to die. 

“He was a complete pain the ass that way,” Astrid continues. 

Carrie smiles despite herself, knows that Astrid is right, in a way. And despite the hurt that crawls within her, the overwhelming sadness in her chest, for a moment Carrie is glad to have this. Someone else who knew him, who understands the enormity of what they lost. 

“Stubborn as a mule,” she says. 

“But beautiful too.” 

Carrie nods again, thinks it’s the perfect description. He hid it so deeply, under layers of darkness, stoicism. 

But now it’s all she can see of him. Everything he ever did for her, how he protected her until the end. He gave it all in heart and blood. And, like always, she didn’t get it at all until it was too late. 

*

Carrie feels a nervous tingle in her spine the moment they walk into the abandoned building, the last on their list to check. 

She’s exhausted - physically, emotionally, mentally. But she pushes it all away, focuses on the moment. Looks around the derelict room for any sign of use. 

Astrid calls her over towards a large blood stain in the concrete and now every nerve in Carrie’s body is firing, her heart starting to flutter in nervous anticipation. She eyes the blood trail to a door in the corner of the room, follows it automatically. 

The door leads to a stairwell, a plastic wrapped body. Carrie is down the stairs before she knows it, driven by the need to see if it’s him. 

Astrid appears in the doorway, voicing all the things she be thinking about. 

“Carrie, what are you doing?” she says. “If that’s Peter, his body’s contaminated with sarin.” 

All she hears is ‘his body’, feels the weight of the words sit in her gut. It still doesn’t feel real, the thought of Quinn being gone, only his cold sarin-ravaged shell left. And yet she’s driven to see, can at least fulfill this much of her responsibility to him. 

“It’s not him,” Carrie says, can tell through the plastic that the dead man is bearded, of middle eastern descent. 

Her heart starts to hammer then, as she realizes that this is the place. Carrie turns, heads back up the stairs determinedly. Always with the need to see for herself, no matter how bad the situation. 

She turns a corner into a larger room, shines her light around until it glints off a glass wall. And now she knows exactly what she’s looking at, just isn’t sure she can handle what she’s about to see. Feels the tears rising quickly as she pauses, gathers herself as much as she can. 

And then she starts walking closer slowly, her mind blank with loss. Until she finds herself right up against the chamber, looking down at her one friend, one of the very few people she loves. 

“Quinn,” she says, still unable to believe her own eyes. 

He looks terrible, yet still beautiful. Covered in filth, his eyes still open.

Carrie kneels, instinctively tries to close the distance between them. He’s just on the other side of the glass. Her Quinn. The one that always saves her. 

The one that always loved her. 

She hadn’t always known, only really realized it recently. Just as she never understood how much he meant to her until he took off. 

And now he’s gone. Which is just too much to deal with, process. 

Carrie presses up against the glass, doesn’t bother to try to stem the tears. Her grief is visceral, bound in every cell of her body. 

He is a part of her, has been for so long. Even when he disappeared, avoided her for years. She hung on to the thought of him, her heart-stricken assassin. 

And now he’s gone, lost to her forever. This kindred spirit she thought she’d always have. The friend she took advantage of so many times over. The possibility she’s always secretly held onto. 

Carrie cries it all out, her sorrow for him, that he died here alone, not ever knowing how much he means to her. Tries to tell what’s left of him that she would have been there for him, that she’s really fucking sorry. Maybe sorrier than she’s ever been, completely devastated with loss.

Finally the tears drip to a stop as Carrie tries to calm her breathing, pull herself together. She doesn’t ever take her eyes off Quinn though, as if still trying to convince herself of the truth. 

Her relentless soldier, finally put to rest, having given the last of him. 

She’s remembering all of it, every sideway glance, every comforting touch. All the battles along the way, all the times he came through for her. 

And then he moves. 

Her heart constricts in her chest, gripped in a emotional vise. It’s not possible. Yet she knows what she saw, is sure it wasn’t her imagination. 

“Astrid, he just moved,” she says, her heart pounding wildly. 

“That’s impossible, Carrie,” Astrid replies. 

But Quinn is impossible, Carrie thinks. In all the best ways. 

“He did, I saw it,” she insists, turning on her light to get a better look. 

When the flashlight makes it to his eyes, he almost blinks, his eyelids fluttering in response to the stimulus. 

There’s so much emotion flooding straight to her brain Carrie can barely make sense of any of it. Disbelief, relief, fear, the barest of hopes. 

But really, all she can think is one single thing. That he isn’t completely gone. That he hasn’t left her again, alone in the world. 

“He’s alive,” she gasps, turning towards Astrid. 

Now the other woman believes her, gets on the phone for a med evac team immediately. And Carrie turns back towards Quinn, thanks the god she’s been trying so hard to find lately. 

I can’t lose you, she says silently to him. Remembers saying it before, the jagged edge of such a potential loss tearing at her. 

But this time it feels like she’s pulled a undeserved miracle. Last time she fought so hard to find him, make him choose. And this time she just let him go, didn’t do enough. 

Yet she has to look to god on this, can’t explain it any other way. She’s been trying to rediscover her faith. This had to be a sign of something. 

Because it’s all she wants now. A chance to make amends, show him that she cares, that he deserves it. 

And now he’s inexplicably alive. After suffering through the most horrifying, excruciating thing she’s ever seen. 

All she can think is he never fails to come through for her. Well, maybe except that once. Even now, he’s given her the only thing she wants at the moment. 

Carrie sits, waiting for the hazmat team to arrive. Astrid approaches and sits silently with her, but Carrie’s lost between herself and Quinn, her need for him to survive eclipsing everything else.

An emotional cluster bomb is firing in her chest. She knows she doesn’t deserve it, that a million things could still go wrong. Life is not easy on her, never a happy ending in sight.

But he deserves it. The one who’s always been there for her, done whatever he could in his own quiet way. Fought through his own demons, done everything she’s ever asked. 

It shouldn’t have taken this for her to realize. This living nightmare, only possible in their fucked up lives. 

She stares at him through the glass, tears starting to spill again. She thinks of what he went through, the way he suffered, how anyone could ever recover from any of it.

All she knows is she’s not sure she’ll ever recover from watching him die, to finding him like this. Yet she tries to maintain faith, reminds herself that it’s a miracle he’s even alive.

Carrie wipes away the tears, takes a deep breath. 

 

Happy endings may not be hers. But she’s never given up hope, especially not about him. He’s always come through for her. 

And so there’s some hope. That she will talk to him again, find a way to say things, explain how fucking sorry she is. 

That he will still be there. Hers, however he is. 

Because that’s what she needs from him right now, to make it through despite all her fuck ups. All she can do is hang onto the hope that he knows this, as he’s always known her. And that he still can’t say no to her, will survive because she needs it of him. 

*

Carrie’s not sure how long she’s been sitting for when the commotion of the hazmat team arriving suddenly stirs her mind out of a guilt cycle. It could have been minutes or hours, time frozen in disbelief since she found him, saw him move. 

She doesn’t move, isn’t sure she’s able to stand. And she needs to see, watch him, let him know she’s there. 

But of course they can’t open up the chamber until she’s gone. Rationally she knows it, and yet she still can’t get up, leave him. 

Astrid gets up to greet the hazmat team. Manages somehow to be all business, completely emotionally grounded. German stoicism, Carrie thinks. Part of why she had thought the older woman such a bitch. 

But this crisis has brought out another side to the German agent, an understanding that Carrie didn’t expect. She thinks in Astrid’s place she would have been hostile, accusative. But maybe only because she blames herself completely still, is unable to see it any other way. 

The medical hazmat team is inside the room now, equipment out to get into the chamber. Carrie still hasn’t moved from her spot, eyes on Quinn. 

She feels Astrid take her hand lightly, lets herself be pulled to her feet. Still she can’t take her eyes off Quinn, has to be guided away, Astrid’s arm around her shoulders.

“Come on, Carrie,” Astrid says quietly. “Let them do their job.” 

Carrie nods, takes one more glance back and then lets Astrid walk her away. 

They walk silently out of the building, back towards their vehicle. But when they get outside, there’s a zoo of people and vehicles, the med evac helicopter still whirring loudly, a large assortment of German BND officers and other personnel. 

Carrie’s still so frozen in emotional shock that she doesn’t even react, just stands staring at the chaos until Astrid walks her towards the other side of the building, away from the overwhelming official bustle. 

“Take your time,” Astrid says, gives Carrie’s shoulders a light squeeze. 

Again Carrie is surprised by Astrid’s change in attitude towards her, the understanding she feels from her former antagonist. Astrid had always been semi-hostile towards her, and there was no love lost the other way either. But it clearly wasn’t time for spite, smallness. Carrie’s just thankful that Astrid saw it too, didn’t try to hurt her while she’s already completely emotionally compromised. 

She supposes it’s their mutual understanding that only the other knows. The value of Quinn. The magnitude of the world’s loss. He was so private, quiet. Known to very few. 

They stand in silence for awhile, Carrie trying to centre herself, settle her raging emotions. It’s hard not to feel the guilt weighing down on her, the thought that she may still have lost him due to her own negligence. And then this little hope, the possibility she didn’t completely fuck it all up. 

Finally Astrid breaks the silence, her words heavy with emotion. 

“He would never blame you for this,” she says. “He would never want you to suffer.” 

Carrie nods, knows it’s the truth. Yet of course she deserves to suffer, blames herself. 

It’s strange to talk about Quinn with anyone, putting anything of their relationship into words. Even between them it was mainly non-verbal, a collection of glances, actions. She’s never said what he meant to her to anyone. Just to him, that once. When he was hell bent on revenge, ready to sacrifice himself. 

And he only voiced it once also, this thing she must have known. What he showed her in a million ways, how much she meant to him. 

She knows Quinn would never have talked about her with Astrid, wonders how Astrid can be so confident in her assertions. The German agent doesn’t seem like the type for platitudes, fake reassurance. And she may be the only other person who knows his under layers, got past the surface. 

“But I lost him,” Carrie says, knows that’s the truth. That he was hers to keep hold of, that she let him go. 

“Actually Peter was always lost, Carrie,” Astrid replies. “But I think he found himself in you.” 

Carrie hates that this is true, feels that she betrayed this connection between them a thousand times over. She used it to hold onto him when she needed him, then just tossed it all aside when their roles were reversed. 

“He deserved so much more,” Carrie says quietly, thinking of all the things she would change now if given the chance. 

Astrid sighs, shakes her head a bit. Looks at Carrie sternly, yet with compassion in her eyes. 

“Peter deserved this. Of course not how it happened. No one deserves that, no matter their past,” she says. “But he ran from the truth of himself, he always knew it would be lead him to his end.”

Carrie tries to take this in, hear Astrid through the layers of guilt and shame. 

“And what’s the truth?” she asks, unsure if she wants to hear the answer.

Astrid pauses again, as if uncomfortable revealing this much about Quinn. For a moment Carrie thinks she isn’t going to reply, that she doesn’t know the answer. 

But after a long silence the German agent sighs again, an expression of melancholy coming over her. 

“That he had love to give, wanted to be loved. That he could be of value as something other than a talented gun,” she finally answers. “He could never believe this possible. Until he met you.”

Carrie takes in the words, knows Astrid voiced things perfectly, that she really did know him too. That he always undervalued himself, owned up to his mistakes. 

Yet she still failed him, her one friend, maybe the only one out there that understands her completely. And there’s nothing that can change that, no words that can soothe her guilt. 

So Carrie just nods, tries to accept the words. And just then the helicopter starts its rotors, makes her realize that it’s time to go, that they’re about to bring him out. 

Carrie takes a breath, looks at Astrid tearily and then starts walking back towards the action. Turns the corner and sees them bring him out in a hazmat bubble stretcher, rushes to his side, nearly pushing one of the hazmat team members aside in her haste. 

“I’m coming with you,” she says to no one in particular, in a tone that brooks no argument. 

Astrid says something in German to the hazmat team about making an exception, then walks with them until they are loading Quinn into the helicopter. Carrie turns, only just realizing that Astrid has to stay in Berlin with the sarin attack coming imminently. 

“Thank you,” Carrie says, as genuinely as she can. “I’m sorry.” 

Astrid shakes her head, gets close enough so Carrie can hear her over the noise of the rotors. 

“No one ever did what was best for him. Especially not himself,” she says. “He was willing to sacrifice anything if necessary. Peter made his own choices, even ones he would die by. He would have accepted this, would want you to do the same.”

Carrie nods, tries to take in the truth of Astrid’s words. Even though she can’t forgive herself, it does help to remember the way Quinn always was, how he fought so hard against his nature, his inclinations. 

Then she climbs into the helicopter, finds her way to his side. Presses her hand up against the plexiglass, silently tells him that she’s there. 

*

It’s been untold hours. She thinks she may have dozed off at some point but the dull ache in her chest doesn’t let her rest. Carrie’s never liked hospitals, for obvious reasons. And waiting in one is almost as bad as being the patient. 

But not in this case, she thinks. There is nothing as bad as what he went through. 

It makes her seize up just to think about it, she avoids it as much as possible. Tries to focus on the minuscule positive in this, that there’s still a chance. 

So she just sits and waits, keeps wondering how the hell any of this happened. What brought Quinn to be in that situation, so soon after he was bleeding out on the streets. And that just makes her think about what brought them to that, how it’s always been with him. Laying himself out there for her. 

He brings up so many what ifs for her, that slightly empty feeling of a lost chance. She should have realized what she had, way back when. Not just after her dad’s funeral. Further, Javadi days, when Brody was still in play. Maybe even before that, but she’d been so tied up in Brody there wasn’t a chance of her seeing anything else. 

God, she’d resented his psycho smart ass manner, Carrie thinks. Even smiles to herself a little. But he’d been so good to her, in his own taciturn way. 

She’s lost in a memory of him in the hospital, trying to see her, when tired footsteps approach. A tear slips through her defenses as she looks up, braces herself for whatever the doctor is about to say. Thinks how she was so hard on him back then, hopes to god she has a chance to make things up, atone for her failings. 

The doctor tells her that Quinn’s been decontaminated, that he’s alive because he was injected with atropine before he was exposed to the sarin. But that he’s in a coma, and suffered significant damage to his respiratory system and nervous system. Whether he would ever wake up, or if there would be permanent damage was unknown. 

Carrie nods tearfully, didn’t expect much else at this stage. 

“Can I see him?” she asks, needs to be with him at least. 

The doctor nods, leads her to a room down the hall. 

Carrie stops at the door, frozen at the site of him lying there, on the respirator.

The tears really start then, as she realizes that this could be it, that this could be all she gets of him ever again. That he could have suffered so much and yet could still be left to suffer like this forever. 

Carrie takes a deep breath, breathes it out and tells herself to calm down. Focus on hope, faith. This is Quinn, she thinks. The most stubborn son of a bitch she knows. As bad as her, never willing to let go without a fight. 

And he’s always come through for her. Even when he shouldn’t have, when he did it against his own best inclinations. 

She walks up to his bed, tentatively puts her hand on his head. It still feels strange, to touch him unreservedly, even when he’s unconscious. To care for him openly, let herself love him. 

It’s so hard to see him like this, frail and lifeless. The antithesis of Quinn, so forceful, intense. 

Fuck, Carrie thinks. She is tied to him in a million ways, always has been. This thing between them, that they were always so scared of. She’s still scared of it. How much she cares about him, how deep it runs in her. That she could lose him now, that it’s all her own fault. It would destroy her, tear her to pieces. 

“Please, Quinn,” she mutters softly. “Please be okay.” 

Of course she thinks of all the things she should have told him long ago, things she would never say to him even now. It’s not the way they are, saying things in words. Quinn has always spoken with action, shown his heart by protecting her in the only ways he knows how. And she’d always shown her fear of intimacy by pushing him off, refusing to be loved. 

And truthfully, after all this, she thinks she shouldn’t be loved. At least she’s having a very hard time loving herself, forgiving herself. 

But at the very least she can be here for him now. Do what he would have wanted. Stay with him through it all. She owes him so much. She can at least love him now, even if it’s too late. 

He deserves it, always has. And it may have taken tragedy, horror for her to realize it. But Carrie’s not going to forget ever again. Will see him through this, whatever it takes.


	21. 5.11

5.11

She asks if there’s a procedure to wake him up, what the consequences could be. Needs to know all the facts before considering it from all angles, even though her thoughts really have no bearing on the situation. 

“Massive seizure, cerebral hemorrhage, death,” the doctor replies matter of factly. 

Carrie nods, didn’t expect anything different really. Looks over at Saul, knows that there are going to be hard moments to come; that she has little power over this situation that affects her so intimately.

Saul pulls out his phone, walks into an empty room. Carrie follows even though it’s clear Saul’s looking for some privacy, knows he’s going to be talking to Dar Adal, making the decision. 

She hates that she has no actual say in this, no legal power over what happens to him. It should be her right, she thinks. Even though she knows she gave up any claim on him years ago, that she actually has no right to him at all. 

The CIA will decide, with no qualms about using him as a tool yet again. No matter the consequences. She knows, as well as anyone can. They used her the same way over and over. These kinds of things do not change.

Saul is making terse conversation with Dar and she knows the decision has already been made. That there was no considering any other direction, that they didn’t give two shits about the possible consequences. 

And now she will have to decide her place. Whether to be complicit, go against her gut. 

Saul hangs up, gives her a hard look. Like he knows what he’s in for. 

“So just like that, no discussion?” she asks, tries to keep the wobble out of her voice. 

Saul uses his stern tone, gives her a exasperated look. 

“There’s nothing to discuss, Carrie,” he replies shortly. “You know it’s in the contract.” 

“And that’s all we are to you,” she retorts. “A fucking tool, a contract.” 

Saul has no response to that, doesn’t even attempt one. Just gives her that condescending look, the one that says he knows better. 

She tries to remember when she looked up to him, when she thought he stood for what was right. And now all she can see is the man who used her, who will do anything to anyone for his dysfunctional Agency. Still just a cog in the machine that perpetuates death, kills its own. 

“You can’t do this, Saul,” she argues. “What if he doesn’t know anything? What if something goes wrong?” 

She still thinks there’s hope, that there is still some humanity left in her mentor, this man who taught her so much. This man who she thought cared for her, understood her. 

But Saul just sets up a firm expression, disapproving and hard. 

“Quinn knows what he signed up for,” he says coldly. “We all know the risks of what we do.” 

But what he signed up for has no bearing for her emotions. All she knows is she would never make this choice for him, would not risk what little chance he has. There had to be another way. Of all things, she can always find another way.

“Saul,” she pleads, angry tears starting to fall. “Please.” 

“Carrie, you’re overreacting,” Saul replies shortly. “We’ll just do the MRI and then decide from there.” 

There’s nothing worse than being told you’re overreacting when you know it’s untrue. And Carrie knows without a doubt that they will go ahead with the procedure, that the CIA does not take no for an answer. 

Rationally she can even understand it. If it was her in that state and she knew something that could save thousands of lives. Would she risk her little chance of survival to save so many? Of course she would, has done it in the past. Even with the consequences, the chance of leaving Frannie alone in the world. Because without that, she wouldn’t be herself, would not honouring her most fundamental beliefs. 

But it’s different choosing for someone else. Especially when he might not know anything. And you’ve only just realized how much you need him to make it through.

Carrie feels sick to her stomach, knows she’s already lost the battle. This was never her decision to make. She fucked that up years ago, let him go when they were both so vulnerable. 

Officially she has no connection to him, no authority in this situation. Intertwined lives, the closeness of mutual understanding, depth of feeling, have no rights in this discussion. 

But she’s the only one here for him. So she has to bear through, regardless of how much she disagrees with their decisions. 

“This is what he would want, Carrie,” Saul adds. “You don’t know how he was in the end.” 

This just goes to show how little he ever knew of her, she thinks. That he could say this to her, imply that Quinn would ask for this, that he deserved this somehow. 

“Fuck you, Saul,’ she replies, spits each word out emphatically. “He was only like that because of Dar, the group. I know what he was doing, how he was. And I know he was still there for me despite it all. This is Quinn, Saul. We can’t do this to him.” 

Saul raises his eyebrows, as if he’s surprised at her outburst. But then again it’s not like she’s ever really expressed any of this, revealed exactly how important Quinn is to her. Not even to herself, except in moments of emergency, last resort. 

“The decision’s been made,” Saul says, without emotion. “There’s nothing you can do to change it.” 

That’s the real truth of the matter, Carrie realizes. The cold juggernaut of the CIA has taken over the situation. And she has to either jump out of the way or fall in line. 

Will she help them? Despite how much she hates the decision that was made, that she had no say in it? 

She pictures him waking up to interrogative looks, Saul’s harsh questions. Sitting outside in the hallway, wondering what’s happening, if he’s okay. 

If he wakes up she wants to be the one that’s there, reassuring him. 

And, if she’s truthful with herself, she thinks he will wake for her, wants him to have some piece of crucial information.

But will she implicate herself too? Be a part of the game she’s been trying so hard to escape? 

She can’t deny that she wants the information, anything he might have. That Quinn himself would risk anything to stop this attack, already has. 

And then there’s the chance that he wakes up, is okay. That she could talk to him, tell him just a few of the million things she’s thought and felt sitting there with him. 

Carrie shakes her head at herself. That’s just selfish, she thinks. Based on her needs. She wants to be done with that, reminds herself that she’s trying to do thing for him now. 

Yet deep down she knows that she will do it, despite all of her qualms. Because she can’t give up the chance to see him wake, be the first to talk to him if he does. No matter how much she disagrees, how much she wants to protest. If this is how things have to be, she needs to be there for him, hope that her will is enough to get him through. 

*

Carrie’s not sure how to feel when the MRI tells them they can go ahead, try to wake him up. But then again she’s been experiencing extreme mixed emotions about all of this. 

She wants to see him, talk to him, more than anything. But not if the risk is losing him forever. 

Yet she stands in the room with Saul, watches as the nurses start to prep for the procedure. 

“Say the word,” the doctor says, looks at Saul for the directive. 

Saul nods and Carrie cringes, isn’t sure she’s ready for this at all. They can’t be doing this to him, can they? 

She watches as the nurses detach the respirator, pull the tube from his trachea. Hears Quinn struggle to breathe, make a high pitched gasping for air that breaks her heart. She closes her eyes, tells herself to breathe, that she can do this. 

They get Quinn hooked up with a nasal cannula and he stops making the horrible gasping, seems a little more comfortable. And then they start the drip to jump start his system, wake him up despite all the warnings. 

Carrie takes another breath, knows it’s time. She has major doubts about doing this still. But if he’s going to wake up she’s going to be there first, wants him to see that she’s there. 

She walks up to him, rests her hand up against his side. Leans in and looks at him, bites back the flood of emotion that threatens to take her down. 

“Quinn,” she says. “Quinn, it’s me Carrie.” 

He doesn’t move, make any indication of waking up. 

“I need you to open your eyes now, okay?” she continues. “Can you hear me? It’s really important you wake up. I need to talk to you.” 

Still, Quinn doesn’t move, doesn’t seem to hear her. And she wonders what he needs to hear, what will make him come to her. It’s not like she planned this out, what she would say to him in a room full of tense spectators. But she knows how to talk to him, may be the only one. 

“Listen to my voice and follow it to the surface,” she says.

Knows he will do it for her. If it’s possible at all, he will give her what she needs of him. 

“I’m here waiting for you.” 

Carrie’s voice cracks with emotion as she wonders if it’s too late, all of it. Her figuring things out, how she should have been there for him way before any of this. Finally being here, ready for him to be here with her when he’s possibly gone, lost to her forever. 

But of course Quinn starts showing brain activity right then, the monitors coming alive, indicating electrical waves. 

The doctor steps in, grabs Quinn and shakes him, yells at him until Quinn’s eyes snap open, staring blankly. 

Carrie feels her pulse start to rise, tries to remember why they are doing this. She needs to ask him about the attack, get a location. She cannot fall apart, take precious moments to tell him how grateful she is he’s still alive, that she really is here for him now. 

“Tell me what the target is,” she says, watching him intently. “Tell me where the attack is going to happen.” 

Quinn starts to fade, his eyelids slowly closing. 

“Keep him awake Colonel,” Saul demands. 

The doctor briefly argues, but doesn’t disobey when Saul snaps back, orders him to keep Quinn awake. Orders the drug even though it’s clearly against his best judgement. 

Carrie watches it happen, tells herself that it’s going to be okay, that Quinn will pull through for her. Doesn’t want to think about the other option, how badly it could go.   
He takes a heaving breath, opens his eyes again. 

“Quinn? Quinn, look at me,” she says. “You’re at Lundstahl Medical Centre. You’re safe.” 

She hopes he hears that part at least, that he’s in friendly territory, that she’s here with him. But he doesn’t seem to register anything, show any sign of lucidity. 

“Blink if you can hear me,” she tries, again to no avail. Quinn just stares blankly at the ceiling, breathing raggedly. Gives no indication of hearing her, looks heartbreakingly terrified, frozen. 

“You penetrated a terrorist cell. They’re planning an attack here in Berlin. I need to know where,” she says. Knows he will do all he can to save lives, that he will respond if he can. 

She nearly cries as his lips start moving, trying to tell her something. But nothing audible comes out as she strains to hear, leans in closer to him. 

A tear slips out for him, at the effort he’s making, after everything that’s happened to him. She doesn’t want to have to ask anything more of him. But duty calls for them both. 

“Louder Quinn?” she asks gently. “I can’t make out what you’re saying.” 

He turns to her then, and she can see that he really sees her, watches as his eyes focus on her for the briefest moment. And then suddenly he heaves, spits up some black substance; then goes into a full body seizure, instant respiratory arrest. 

Carrie steps back, eyes wide in shock. Watches as Quinn struggles to breathe, his body starting to crash. 

It’s the worst case scenario, her nightmare what if come to life. Hurting him after everything she’s already done to him. Watching their decision harm him once again. 

She’s complicit in every way, even though she was against this, would not have made this call. She knows she called him to the surface, that he came to for her. And that means it’s as much on her as anyone, that there is still more guilt for her to take in. 

Because if Quinn dies because of what they did to him, it could break her, will scar her forever.

*

It seems like forever since they were pushed out into the hall, her and Saul both silent in contemplation of their actions. She wonders if Saul has any regrets, thinks of him as a hard man now. He doesn’t seem to remember that Quinn is more than an operative, appears to just casually hold another subordinate’s life in his hand. 

But what can she expect of him? He used Quinn from the start of all this, played on his weakness to exploit his dark skill set. And Dar. Always trying to pull Quinn back to the group, away from his conscience. 

Still. She knows she has to include herself in the group. She let herself be used by them, even wanted it in some way. She hates herself for being relieved she didn’t have to make the hard call, so she can still believe she wouldn’t have let them do it if she had any say. Because, in truth, she’s no longer absolutely sure about what she would have done.

Which makes her as bad as them. Definitely complicit in this terrible deed, this thing they’ve done to him. 

The doctor finally comes out, gives them an update on the situation that doesn’t say much. 

Quinn’s stable at least, enough to let her take in a breath of relief. But of course the doctor doesn’t have any other good news, can only say that they didn’t improve Quinn’s chances with what they did. Which is obvious, Carrie thinks. Yet hard to hear all the same. 

“I’ve got to go back,” Saul says, interrupting her looping thoughts, anxious guilt. 

“Of course,” she mutters, trying to clear her head, think of her next move. 

“You’re staying here I assume?” Saul asks, gives her the opening she needs.

“No,” she says. Because there’s something else she needs to know, one part of the story she still can’t quite understand. And she has the need to do something other than sit still. 

Standing around and watching Quinn struggle for life isn’t helping either of them at the moment. It just overloads her with guilt, pain. And she’s sure he doesn’t need any negativity around him, that it would be better if she channeled her anxious energy some other way. 

“No?” Saul asks, gives her a questioning look. 

“We know the atropine saved his life,” Carrie explains. “But that’s not the only thing.” 

Saul seems to have no idea where she’s going with this, forgotten that she told him about Quinn escaping from his hideout while bleeding out. 

“What do you mean?” he asks. 

“His bullet wound,” she replies. “A surgical drain was inserted into his abdomen to treat the sepsis. Whoever did that had serious medical training.” 

“You think it’s the same person?” Saul asks, still on the wrong track of it all. 

Whoever did this to Quinn didn’t save him just to kill him. But there had to be some link, some way the terrorists found him. And the scars left from the medical procedures that had been done on him were the only clue, something she could follow. 

“I’m thinking there’s a good samaritan out there,” she explains. “Probably not too happy about what he’s been seeing on television lately.” 

“That’s an interesting theory, I’ll pass it along,” Saul says, obviously brushing her off. 

“Why don’t you let me run it down?” she pleads. “It’s not exactly the tip of the spear and I can’t just sit here and do nothing.” 

“Okay, but check in every step of the way,” he says, his phone ringing to distract him from their conversation. 

“I will,” Carrie agrees, walks off with purpose. 

If she can’t do anything for Quinn, at least she can try and solve this for him. Stop his torturers, let him know that all his suffering came with some small consolation. 

It’s not much, but it’s all that she’s got. And it is who she is, who he always knew her to be. Who he was too. 

Drawn to the mission, having to see it through to the end. 

And also needing to know what happened to him, how she lost him, how he was found. These are all pieces of them now, this undefined thing between them, things she will always remember of him.

Moments of Quinn, always dense with meaning, heartbreak. She needs as many as she can get now, every bit of him she can collect. In case this goes worse than it already has, she needs to know all she can of him, how this came to be. 

*

The hallway in front of the doctor’s apartment has finally cleared out, patient after patient having been dutifully seen.   Carrie’s waited as patiently as possible, knows she’s on the right track. This is a good man, she thinks to herself. Can’t be thankful enough that he somehow found Quinn. 

Finally the door opens for her and she finds herself looking at a tired man of middle eastern descent. He still manages a honest smile for her, invites her in and introduces himself as Hussain. 

“Salaam alaikum, thank you for seeing me,” Carrie starts. “My name is Carrie Mathison. And I think you saved my friend.” 

Hussain takes a breath, gives her a knowing look. 

“Wa-alaikum salaam,” he says cautiously. 

“You know who I’m talking about,” she continues. “I’m sure you’ve seen what happened.” 

The doctor nods sadly, swallows hard. 

“I’m sorry about what happened,” he says quietly. “I did all that I could.”

Carrie nods, knows he certainly did more than she could ever repay. He saved Quinn after she’d lost him, given him a second chance. 

“I can’t thank you enough for what you did,” she replies. “But how did you come to find him?” 

“I take a walk every evening, sometimes I find people in need of help. He was badly hurt, trying to die,” Hussain explains. 

It hits her hard, the truth. As much as she had suspected, gathered from Jonas’ comments. 

To know that he sat there, ready to die for her. That he’d planned it out, tried to leave no trace. 

It was hard to hear it so barely, this thing she didn’t want to believe. 

“The river,” she mumbles to herself. Remembers looking for him there, following his trail. 

“Yes, I found him on the banks of the Landwehr canal,” the doctor says. 

“Suicidal, you said?” Carrie replies, needs to hear it again. It’s almost too painful to acknowledge, what he had tried to do for her, what she had almost let him do. 

And yet, this is exactly her Quinn, the man she knows and loves. Willing to do anything for her, no matter the cost to himself. 

“He was trying to drown himself,” Hussain says. “But he was nearly dead already from the loss of blood.” 

It’s impossible not to picture him there, by himself, struggling to end his own life. Disappear forever. To keep her safe, give her the best chance. 

“And you treated him?” Carrie says, again amazed at the unfolding of events. 

Hussain nods. 

“Right in this room,” he answers. 

Carrie looks around, thinks she should have been here with him, that he shouldn’t have been alone. Fuck, he was so infuriating, she thinks. Stubbornly trying to die for her when she should have been taking care of him. 

“For a man who wanted to end his life, I’ve rarely seen someone fight so hard to stay alive,” Hussain adds, admiration clear in his voice. 

Carrie nods, even smiles a little. Of course Quinn made an impression. Regardless of how he tries to hide from everyone, holding himself so tightly. 

“Yeah,” she says, sniffing back too-present tears. “That sounds like him.” 

That he could be so far gone, emotionally shut down. And yet still able to do this for her, even try so hard to survive. 

Why did she never realize what she had? At least not until it was far too late? 

“What was his name?” the doctor asks. “He never told me.” 

Of course he didn’t she thinks. Quinn would never let anything slip. But of all people, the doctor should know who he saved. 

“Quinn,” she replies. “Peter Quinn.” 

Hussain repeats her words and Carrie can barely hang onto her tears. Fuck, she thinks. I can’t lose him. Not like this.

The doctor says something about seeing Quinn on television, that the world has gone mad. And of course it’s the truth, her entire reality akin to a crazy dream that won’t go away. 

But she’s here for a reason, not just to find out how Quinn ended up there. If there’s a chance she can help at all, contribute to stopping this attack. She needs to solve this for him, finish his job. 

“These men, these men that did that to him,” she says, barely able to get the words out. “Where are they?” 

Hussain hedges for a moment, tells her that he and his children would be in danger if they knew he was talking to her. But Carrie pushes on, knows he has actionable information, maybe even something that will point her towards the location of the attack. Asks where she can find them, just needs the barest of leads to get her going.

But Hussain just says that he doesn’t know, that they were headed to Syria as far as he understood. 

So Carrie tries a different angle, thinks the doctor must be able to offer her something useful. 

“But they were here right?” she asks. “Or somewhere close? I mean, otherwise how did Quinn come into contact with them?” 

Hussain looks around uncomfortably, clearly fears for his safety. But he still answers, gives in. Tells her that one of the terrorists had an apartment downstairs where they would meet. 

Carrie feels the familiar rush of adrenaline she gets when an operation suddenly turns, key information snapping into place. Asks Hussain to show her the apartment, knows she is getting close. 

Whatever is in there, she’s already sure of its importance. That’s just how things are for her. And she’s here because of Quinn, following his lead. So she’s sure that this is it, that he’s managed to come through for her yet again. 

Because that’s just how it is between them, how it’s always been. She just hopes he can hang on, find out how many lives he saved, how much she still needs him.


	22. 5.12

5.12

The train approaches. 

Carrie shoots, desperate shots taken with a shaky left hand. Keeps firing until the last moment, then jumps out of the way, feels the rush of the train against her back as it hurtles by.

There’s no sound once the train is gone, nothing indicating what happened between Qasim and Bibi. No movement either. 

Carrie takes a breath, remembers to reload her gun before approaching the scene. Then walks up carefully, sees that Bibi is dead, Qasim injured. 

She hurriedly checks the sarin weapon, sees that it’s still on standby and breathes a huge sigh of relief. Then turns to Qasim, who is struggling for breath, blood gurgling from his chest. 

All she can think to do is sit down, try to reassure him. Tell him that he did what he set out to do, that he saved them all. 

“Qasim,” she says. “Qasim. It’s over. You stopped him.”

Qasim shudders, trembles in pain and shock as Carrie tries to hold him, keep him warm. She rubs his back nervously, trying her best to calm him down, say soothing words as she would to Frannie. 

She looks down at the would-be terrorist, the man that saved so many lives. Realizes two things at once. 

The atropine, how it happened. 

It was Qasim. And it was Quinn too. He turned Qasim, saved thousands. Maybe even himself. 

“It was you too, wasn’t it,” she says softly, sadly. “Who saved my friend. Gave him the atropine.” 

Qasim doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t need him to confirm it. Knows that it’s true, that he saved Quinn, gave him a chance. 

“Thank you,” she tells him, as deeply as she can. “Thank you.” 

Qasim lingers for a moment after that but she can tell that he’s fading fast. Then his eyes close and she knows he’s gone to his god. 

From somewhere in her memory the words come to her. A dua’a for the dead, for those who have gone to be with Allah. 

Carrie feels the tears come as she recites the verse, sadness and gratitude mixed in each drop. Pride too, for Qasim, for Quinn. 

A soldier until the end. Always in the darkness, doing his own brand of good. 

She wonders if she will ever get the chance to tell him. About this, about a million other things too. Then thinks what if she doesn’t, what if he never wakes up. 

She’s lost so much in such a short time. Her whole life, this alternate reality she created. 

Gone in a cloud of death. 

Almost dying yet again. Qasim dead in her arms. Her own brush with assassination. Quinn’s life still hanging. 

Her head and her hand throb in equal pulses, thoughts and emotions so thick she can barely keep above the surface. By the time police start to arrive she’s half way to overwhelmed catatonia, barely able to sputter out an explanation in muddled German. 

It must be clear that she’s not a threat, had somehow been involved in preventing a mass casualty situation. So she’s escorted out of the tunnel, then out of the station into a waiting ambulance. 

There she sits dazed, letting the paramedic deal with her hand. Wishing entirely for someone to come wrap her up lovingly, tell her it’s all over. Some comfort, some familiarity. Something stable to hold herself to. 

She remembers another time, sitting and shaking in another ambulance. He had put his arms around her that day, had surprised her even. So genuinely concerned for her, the worry in his eyes. 

It’s what she needs now. Someone to take over, tell her things aren’t as fucked up as they appear. That her life hasn’t fallen apart in two weeks, that she hasn’t lost everything yet again. 

But as always, she’s all alone with her thoughts, overwhelming emotions. Even when Saul finally shows up she feels nothing, doesn’t want comfort from him. 

She tells him it was all Qasim, that a lot of people would be dead if not for him. Including her. 

So close, she thinks. To leaving Frannie forever. 

Saul tries to say something reassuring but she cuts him off, tells him she’ll be okay. Focuses on what’s just happened, goes back to her instincts as an officer. Asks about the rest of the terror group, what happened to Allison. Doesn’t particularly like the answers, but finds she’s nearly lost the capacity to care anymore. 

She knows they’ve won, but it still feels like such a loss to her. This kind of hate, all this CIA bullshit. It’s what she wanted to get away from. And still it found her, created disaster. 

“I want to go home,” Carrie says, not even quite sure what she means. Only that she needs to feel safe, wants some comfort. 

Saul calls someone to drive her, and soon she’s in the back seat of a government vehicle, unsure of where to go. 

All she can think is to go home, the only home she has in Berlin. Reattach to the fragments left of her life there, maybe let herself be taken care of by Jonas. Pretend like none of this ever happened. 

It’s the only thought that gives her any comfort at all, and so she goes home, finds an empty house. Crawls into bed, thinks she may sleep for a week. 

* 

Jonas tells her to keep his sweater. And with that, the bubble bursts, reality comes rushing back in. 

It’s the look in his eyes when she tells him it was her in the tunnel. The fact that she wanted to hide the truth from him, pretend that’s not who she is. 

But of course it was her. It’s always her in the tunnel, face to face with death. Or standing outside a terrorist’s hideout, a load of C4 under your feet.

Still. It’s been two years of calm, safety. Relative bliss, what she wants to want. A stable life for her daughter, a solid guy she can count on. 

Especially now, after two weeks of traumatic stress. Losing everything, barely getting out alive. 

And then Quinn. She can’t even begin to think about that right now. Has to collect herself first, or she’s going to lose it altogether. 

Two weeks, she thinks. Of her old self. Her real self.

That’s all it took to lose the dream. 

She knows now it’s for real. 

Jonas is going on, as he does. But Carrie’s stuck in the moment, riddled with loss. 

“So that’s it? We’re just going to say goodbye like none of this ever happened?” she asks. Like the last two years have been nothing but make believe, a pretend life. 

“It happened,” Jonas replies, his use of the past tense both clear and stark. 

“I was happy here,” Carrie continues, still not ready to accept it. “Frannie was happy. I think you were too.” 

“Yeah, I was,” Jonas admits. 

“So why can’t we pick up where we left off? Would that be so hard?” 

Carrie knows she’s pleading, that she sounds desperate. But right now she wants it more than anything else. Pretend like the last two weeks never happened, fall back into the easy routine of her safe Berlin life. Have her family back together, love and be loved. 

Jonas tells her to sit down in his much-too-reasonable voice.

But of course she doesn’t, can’t. It’s finally starting to sink in, that her fantasy of solving her problem and then getting right back to her “real” life isn’t possible. She had hung onto the hope through all the traumatic shit. Only now does she feel it crumble. 

“No, I don’t want to sit down,” she says. “No. I want another chance. I think we could do better this time.”

It’s always this, her begging for another chance. Fucking things up, having to plead for forgiveness. Even though she knows it’s already gone, whatever they had. It’s not even Jonas himself she really wants. She just wants a piece of the past, the easy life she’d cultivated for her and Frannie. 

Jonas stands up, faces her. Tells her some bullshit about him being sorry, that this isn’t easy for him, that he still loves her, loves Frannie. 

Desperate her hears only hope in this statement, not the truth that comes with it. 

“Then don’t break up with us,” she pleads. “Let’s just put everything back the way it was.” 

She still thinks she could do it. Easily, in fact. Forget all the traumatic shit, put it behind her yet again. 

But Jonas is soft, unaccustomed to these conditions. Part of why it had been so easy, so normal with him. Someone stable to counteract her tendency towards flight. Mundane, a regular guy. 

“But you can’t put things back,” he states. “They won’t go back.” 

“You don’t know that,” she insists. “You don’t know that until you try.” 

“I can’t unhear things that I’ve heard. Unsee things I’ve seen,” he replies. “I’m sorry.” 

She wishes he would stop saying that, such a bullshit expression of nothing. Obviously he isn’t that sorry, eager to get rid of her in fact. After everything she went through, is still going through. Two years and he doesn’t care enough to be there for her now, as her world crumbles around her. 

“Stop saying that,” she snaps. “Stop saying that you’re sorry.” 

“I don’t want to go through life always worried about what’s around the next corner. And I don’t want my kids to either,” he explains, like he’s clearly thought this through. 

But all she can think is I almost died, numerous times. I lost Quinn. Twice. And all Jonas can do is worry about is his own life, his own situation. This kid thing is just bullshit, a smokescreen. He was never at risk, but Jonas would never see it that way.

“Your kids,” she replies, irritated. 

“Yeah,” Jonas says. “What happened to Stefan can never happen again.” 

“It won’t,” she answers, already knowing that it’s futile. 

“You can’t promise me that,” he argues.

She knows it’s true, that she can’t promise him anything. What happens in her life is often outside of her immediate control, touches everyone close to her.

 It’s why she needs this stable base of operations, a comfortable family unit to ground her through tumultuous times. So to be rejected on the basis of her past, future possibilities, one shitshow situation. To lose everything she had worked so hard for through no real fault of her own. 

It hurts, makes her realize it was just a long medicated delusion. That all she thought she learned about love was false in the end. 

“Jonas,” she says, still trying to explain. 

But he doesn’t let her continue, just goes on in his too reasonable tone. 

“Carrie, I’m doing us both a favour, can’t you see?” he asks. “It will never work, is what I’m saying. It was a crazy idea to begin with.”

It still gets her, that word. Going out with a crazy person, that’s all it ever was to him, she thinks. She had trusted him, let him in. And still, after all that. Crazy. 

“Oh, so now I’m crazy,” she retorts, feels her chest fill with cold fury. 

Jonas backpedals, but she’s pushes through. Needs to defend herself, her actions. 

“I’m not crazy, Jonas,” she fires back. “I went off my meds for a reason.” 

He says he knows, but nothing abates the anger pushing through her now. 

“No, no, you know what was crazy was I actually opened myself up to you and really let you in,” she says, angry disappointment in each word. The hurt of having revealed herself, that he was so unworthy in the end. 

“We’re not talking about this,” he replies pathetically, pointlessly. 

“I’m talking about loving you, about being loved,” she fires back. “What are you talking about?” 

She had loved him. His calm lawyerly demeanor. So even-tempered, reassuring. He had been great with Frannie, open with his emotions. Kind to her, to them both. 

Until push came to shove, and his easy life was briefly encumbered with the part of her she’d so successfully hidden away. 

So what did that really mean? That he never loved all of her, never even knew all of her. She’s only starting to realize that now, that she had never completely been herself with him. That she’d been lying to them both this whole time. 

Jonas approaches, tries to say something comforting. Reaches for her with a consolation offering, like she would want him to touch her after all this. 

A few minutes ago she would have done anything to just have him hold her, tell her that everything would be okay. And now it’s over, done. Carrie feels the wall slam down inside her, severs what was left of her desire for him. 

Walks away, tells him that she doesn’t want that, doesn’t want him. Won’t allow it. 

Knows that he won’t follow. That her little fantasy is over. 

The last two weeks really happened and there’s no way to go back. She’s lost everything she worked so hard for, the idyllic life she tried to create for Frannie. 

And still she walks away fiercely, gathers what’s left of her emotional reserves. It really is for the best, she realizes. He never even knew her, couldn’t handle just a taste. 

She is who she is. And this is part of who she is. She will always be the blonde in the tunnel, needs someone who understands that. Remembers the look of disapproval on his face, says another mental fuck you to him. 

Carrie gets her things, slams the door on her way out. Emotions on fire, she’s adrift, cut loose from her life. 

For a moment she’s lost, has no idea what to do. But her feet don’t stop moving and then she’s in a cab, at the airport. And only when she buys the ticket does she realize she always knew where she was headed, that she had never really been drifting. That she’s still tethered to him in so many ways, emotionally, physically, mentally. So maybe, seemingly lost, this whole time she was just returning to where she was meant to be. 

*

His room is a disaster, clearly the scene of a medical emergency. Her heart hammers in her ears, panic setting in fast. 

“No,” she mutters to herself. “No.” 

He can’t be gone, not now. When she finally sees it, what she’s cost him, what she owes him. She cannot lose him too. 

Carrie finds a nurse, uses her ‘tell me now’ voice. 

“Peter Quinn, he was in room 303, he’s not there, where is he?” she demands, needs to know before panic completely takes over. 

The nurse asks if she’s his wife, or family, and she thinks jesus christ, it’s Quinn, he doesn’t have these things and what the hell does that have to do with anything. Why she’s always having to define his role in her life, a thing that can’t be put into words. 

“I am a friend goddammit!” she hollers at the nurse. “Where is he?”

“I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to calm down,” the nurse says, all too reasonably. “He’s in the OR, he had a brain hemorrhage. The neurosurgical team is operating on him now.” 

The words go in and she tries to understand them through the hammering of her heart, the pulsing in her head. A brain hemorrhage. Basically what killed her dad. 

But Quinn. Even Quinn so hurt, damaged. It’s unimaginable to her.   And yet it was one of the possibilities, she remembers that loud and clear. But they did it anyways, woke him up for nothing in the end. 

“What, so he had a stroke?” she asks, still trying to process what’s being said. 

The nurse doesn’t contradict her and Carrie feels it in the pit of her stomach, reality sinking in. 

“In his case, intercerebral and quite severe,” the nurse says instead. As if it’s just another fact, not life-changing, earth-shattering. 

Carrie gapes, tries to breathe in spite of the panic. Asks how long he’s been in surgery, just to say something while her inner mind flips out, refuses to accept the situation. 

The nurse says a couple of hours, that he will be in there for many more. Offers to show her to the waiting room but Carrie asks for the chapel, the only thing she can think of at the moment. Somewhere to calm her racing thoughts, panicking mind. Somewhere to ask for forgiveness, for her, and for him. 

* 

Carrie sits in the chapel, everything tinged with multiple realities. She thinks this can’t be happening, that she can’t lose him this way, after everything they’ve both just been through. And yet, it’s what she deserves, for losing him in the first place, helping them wake him up. 

All for nothing. He had already solved the problem, turned Qasim. 

Just once, she thinks. Just once she needs this to turn out on her side. Not for her, though. She’s finally past that, she thinks. Now she’s here just for him, for whatever he needs. And he deserves another chance, the life he never had. 

The light in the chapel plays with her eyes, her mind. The woman is humming, the girl looks back. They are there and not there, could be real or surreal. She’s dissociated before, fallen into psychosis. And yet this is not that, she knows it’s not an episode. 

Carrie presses her thumb into her injured hand, digs in until her arm screams with pain. She wants to feel, to hurt, to torture herself. It’s no less than she deserves. 

She hasn’t done this in a long time, satisfied the need to self harm, relieve tension and emotion through physical pain. It’s been a tool in the past, something to make her feel alive, something to release inner turmoil. And yet she pushes hard now, until the light glimmers through the stained glass, shimmers in her vision. 

* 

Reality comes back into focus when the doctor finds her, introduces himself again. Tells her the facts, nothing that sounds good. 

Quinn’s out of surgery but the hematoma was very large and they had to do a craniotomy. She asks what that means, if he will recover. But the doctor hedges, says it’s too soon to tell. 

Carrie pushes, needs to know the truth, the real implications. Tells him to give it to her straight. 

“It was a bad one,” the doctor admits. “And even if he does recover, the brain damage will be significant.” 

The words rattle around in her head but they still don’t seem to be true. Significant brain damage. 

Quinn, her Quinn. Most likely lost to her forever. 

“Where is he?” she asks, needs to see him for herself.

*

She walks in slowly, doesn’t want to believe it still. 

Quinn’s barely recognizable, his head covered in bandages, a respirator breathing for him. She can’t bear to see him this way, feels the weight of it all crushing down on her yet again. Stumbles, has to grab the bed to hold herself up. 

This is the human cost of her own selfishness, she thinks. Of their dedication to the dark. 

Quinn. Her soldier. 

It had been a miracle he was alive. And they squandered it on nothing. 

“Did we do this to him?” she gasps, knows that she will get no answer. Not from the doctor, not from god. 

And the thing is she doesn’t need one, knows that she will always believe it to be true. That this is the result of their choice, that they gave up his best chance for nothing. 

The doctor leaves, and all she can do is sit and cry. Wonder if this is really it, if they’ve finally run out of chances. 

*

He doesn’t wake. Not for days. 

His brain function improves, they take him off the respirator. A good sign, but nothing definitive. He can breathe for himself but that’s it. 

His eyes stay closed, he shows no hint of consciousness. 

And yet she stays, waits. Sits and thinks. Cries and hopes. 

Day after day, she watches him sleep. Goes through it all in her head. 

Quinn, who he was to her, what he means to her now. She knows him so intimately, two of a kind. And still she knows next to nothing about him, his shadowy past. 

She finds herself talking to him, like he’s right there with her. Reminiscing, smiling sadly at the past. They don’t have normal memories together of course, all blood and trauma laced, danger-infused. 

And now that she’s looking through them, she sees it so clearly. What she had refused to see at the time, how he was always there for her. Even at the start, when she thought he was such a prick. Straight to the end, even having lost so much of himself. 

How different would it be if she had ever let herself care for him? The way she does when she realizes she’s going to lose him, in emergency situations. Not that he was easy to care for, so brittle and sensitive in his own way. Yet she knows he would have let her, if only she’d been able before now. Before it was too late.

She tries not to think like that, yet knows the truth. It’s already a longshot for him to regain consciousness, and every day in the coma worsens the odds. Yet she prays, refuses to leave. Not even for Frannie, who she misses terribly. For once she has to be here for him, if he’s going to wake up she needs to be here. 

*

Carrie’s only briefly surprised to see the visitor sleeping at Quinn’s bedside when she arrives for the day. He was the only other person that ever cared about Quinn, albeit in a mind-fucking, soul-destroying way. Her one competitor for Quinn’s loyalty, his personal demon, always pulling him back to the group. 

She ignores Dar’s presence, walks over to Quinn’s bedside and begins her morning ritual with him. Applies moisturizer to his easily-chapped lips, then sits and rubs lotion all over his calloused hands. It’s soothing to be able to take care of him this way, with small gestures he will never know about. At least it makes her feel that she is contributing, has something to provide. 

She’s lost in the moment, still worrying her fingers over Quinn’s hand when Dar speaks, asks the prognosis. 

“Unchanged,” Carrie says quietly. 

“Not a good sign he hasn’t woken up,” Dar replies, stating the obvious. 

“No,” she answers. 

“Pity,” Dar comments, in his usual snide way.

“If there’s no improvement soon they’re talking about changing his status to minimally conscious,” she continues, making herself say it. It still hurts to even think the words, what they mean. 

“What does that mean?” Dar asks, echoing her thoughts. 

“It means odds of recovering cognitive function drops to close to zero,” she says, still trying not to believe it. 

Yet she makes herself tell him because Dar should know, what their orders did to his golden boy. This is the cost of what we do, she mentally screams at him. This is what we lose. 

“Poor Peter,” Dar says, standing up. “It’s his worst nightmare.”

Carrie doesn’t answer, has been thinking much the same thing. That this is the antithesis of Quinn, just laying there, no capability. He was always so brilliant in his own way, so able physically, mentally. To be reduced to just a shell, unlikely to ever regain brain function. 

She knows she wouldn’t want to live like that, not even for her daughter. It would only be a burden to everyone, a pointless existence just dragging on. It’s what she’s been thinking about a lot, it’s impossible not to. 

“You know we found him when he was sixteen,” Dar continues, much to her surprise. 

She had just been thinking how little she knew of the facts of his life. Remembers how surprised she had been to discover his on-going relationship with Astrid, that he had a life outside of the group. 

“No, I didn’t know that,” she replies, only just starting to realize what that meant. 

Sixteen, just a kid. It’s hard to think of Quinn as a teenager. And yet she had always wondered how he ended up in black ops, where most of the operatives were recruits from special forces. Yet Quinn had never been military, she knew that much. 

“Foster home in Baltimore. The group was looking for a street kid. Someone real. But pretty enough to turn the head of a Hong Kong paymaster,” Dar explains. 

Carrie stares, dumbfounded. She did not see this coming, feels cold nausea in her stomach. Pulling a kid off the street, using him because he has no alternatives.

“He was a natural from the start,” Dar continues. 

That she can believe, as horrible as the story is. Quinn is resourceful, intelligent. Would do well in any situation if given the opportunity. 

“I believe it,” she says. 

“A couple years later, I sponsored him for training. Youngest guy ever,” Dar says, finishing his story. 

Carrie thinks about Quinn at eighteen, can’t decide whether to smile or cry. He would have been a brooding beautiful boy; brash and tough to hide his vulnerable inner self. 

She’s still imagining this young Quinn, top of his class in everything when Dar surprises her again, reaches into his jacket for something and hands it to her.

“What’s this?” she asks, can’t imagine what Dar could possibly have for her. 

“You were his beneficiary in case anything happened to him in Syria,” he explains. 

The words go in but she’s having trouble comprehending. Looks down at the envelope, registers that it has her name on it, in Quinn’s handwriting. 

It’s like being struck in all directions, multiple emotional mortar blasts. But of everything, she did not see this coming at all. His beneficiary. A letter. 

Carrie’s frozen, stuck between past and present. Gaping at what she holds in her hands, at what Dar just told her. 

“I figured I’d give it to you now, no telling when we might see each other again,” Dar continues, as if she’s still listening, gives a shit about what he’s saying. 

With that he turns and leaves. The door closes and Carrie stares at the envelope, then looks at Quinn. She’s not at all sure she’s ready to open it, read his goodbye to her. 

And yet she needs to know, has to hear him out. Whatever he had to say to her so long ago, maybe his last words to her. 

She opens the envelope, slowly takes the letter out. Takes a deep breath before unfolding it, readies herself for the words. 

*

When she finally gets a chance to really read it, she hears it in his voice, the words so true to him. Darkly honest, emotionally raw.

_I guess I’m done. And we never happened._

She sits at his bedside, looks at Quinn now, thinks of him writing the words. Running from her two years ago, how vulnerable he had been. 

Fuck, she thinks, tears already starting to form. If only everything had happened differently. 

_I’m not one for words but they’re coming now. I don’t believe in destiny, or fate or horoscopes but I can’t say I’m surprised things turned out this way. I always felt there was something kind of pulling me back to darkness - does that make sense?_

It was all he had, of course it made sense. Even more so now she knows his beginning. All that he knew, his only sense of belonging. It had been true of her for so long too, hard to let go of even now. The life of darkness, death. 

_But I wasn’t allowed a real life, or a real love - that was for normal people. With you I thought, ah maybe, just maybe. But I know now that it was a false glimmer. I’m used to those, they happen all the time in the desert. But this one got to me._

Carrie’s pretty gone by now, tears free flowing, lip being chewed hard. Fuck, she thinks again. If only they could have ever said these things. If she hadn’t been so fucked up, lost herself. 

She thinks of Quinn, finally admitting this all to her. Too scared to do it in life, only able to tell her from beyond. Hates herself for being too scared herself, for pushing him away, letting him perpetuate the belief. That he didn’t deserve love, could never have his need fulfilled. It’s heartbreaking all over again, so obvious in hindsight. Her fear of fucking things up, hurting him, never being able to love and be loved. It was his fear too. For different reasons, yet with the same result. 

_And here’s the thing, this death, this end of me is exactly what should have happened. I wanted the darkness, I fucking asked for it. It has me now._

This is so him, so stuck in his belief that he belonged to the dark, that death was his only absolution, his only way out. 

She looks at him now, hovering in the space between life and death. Wants so badly for him to cling on, come back to her. 

And yet she can’t help wonder what he wants, especially after reading his words. Of course it was from a different time, one of high trauma, soul-destroying defeat. Yet he had tried to kill himself just two weeks ago, though again in a state of distress, most likely irrational from blood loss. 

She knows him so well. Knows he wouldn’t want this. She heard the implication in Dar’s words, what he wants for his fallen soldier. And yet she holds onto hope, won’t give up on him again. At least not yet, not until there’s nothing left to hope for.

_So don’t put a star on the wall for me, don’t say some dumb speech. Just think of me as a light on the headlands, a beacon steering you clear of the rocks._

_I loved you._

_Yours, for always now,_

_Quinn._

She’s freely sobbing by the end. So simple and true to Quinn. Exactly how he was. To the point, but absolutely beautiful, heart-breaking. He would kill for her, die for her. Yet could only say the words on paper, so vulnerable in his love. 

And she knows it’s true, that he will always be hers, always be there, guiding her way. No matter what happens, how the future unfolds. She will carry him with her, will always love him; remember that she was loved. 

*

These have been the amongst the worst days of her life. Guilt dripping from every thought, anxiety about a choice that shouldn’t have to be made. 

When she watches him sleep, he’s just a shell. No expression, nothing to indicate any brain function returning. And then she remembers the man he was, so capable in every way. Intelligent and deadly, extremely able.

This is not Quinn, will never be the same Quinn again. This she knows, has been told numerous times, in every way. Significant brain damage if he ever even wakes up. The likelihood of that fading every day too. 

She continually hears Dar’s voice in her head, the pity he had for his fallen operative. She knows what choice he would have her make, what he thinks Quinn would want. 

And this is the thing. It’s all about what Quinn would want - something she can’t know. All the clues say he was asking for this, seeking it out in his own way. His suicide attempt while bleeding out, the fact that he wouldn’t go to a goddamned hospital in the first place. Following this group to back Syria, after he nearly died. And what he said in his letter.

She’s read it so many times it’s ingrained in her mind, the words burning in her chest day and night. Trying to elicit any new meaning, what he would want now. 

He had believed he deserved it, that this was his inevitable return to the death he could never escape from. 

But now she gets it, why he could never get out. It was really all that he had, all he’d ever known. Sixteen, basically raised by Dar. He would have been a little fucker, hard from his time in the foster system. But loyal to a fault, good at everything. 

And if he would fucking wake up she would show him the truth, that he had worth in just being. Not as an operative, an assassin. In just being him, her Quinn. 

That she loves him for his subtle softness, not his deadly aim. That she wants nothing more than to care for him now, never lose him again. 

But then the starkness of reality hits, how things always go. She only ever learns these lessons too late, when she’s already lost her chance. Of course she’s ready now to give him what he needs. When all indications say he wants to meet the dark, is ready to die. 

She remembers being there before, more than once. Still believes that it’s a personal choice, that people should get a choice in their own death. And yet. She’s so thankful to still be alive, to have her daughter - especially after fighting so hard to survive these last weeks. 

And she’s still thankful to have a chance of him. Just can’t tell if that’s selfish or not. What he wants - that’s something she can never really know. 

So for the time being she just sits with him, takes care of him in the only ways available. Keeps his hands smooth, his lips soft. Remembers all the times he was there for her, so often only seen by her in hindsight, if at all. 

Like in Islamabad, when she had been so pissed at him. Saving her from herself, when all she did was rail at him. 

I loved you. 

Had she known? In a way, of course. Had used it against him in the end, daring him to blow her up.

And then she missed her chance, his one opening. Then two years, wondering if he was dead, gone forever. Followed by two days here, him sacrificing himself for her.

Now this. She doesn’t deserve to be the one in this position, has never held his needs first. But she knows he would want her to be the one, that he believed in her even at her worst. That she’s the only one he let know him; that he was always hers. 

Carrie shakes her head, blinks back the ever ready tears. Breathes. His words are always in her mind now, she can hear him saying them right now. 

He says he asked for the darkness, and she knows he did. Because he thought it was where he belonged. She should have told him about his light, how much it meant to know he was there for her. All those times he said yes, because she needed him. When he came to her father’s funeral, despite everything that had happened. 

She remembers how happy she had been to see him, relieved, thankful. Even though they had both been so fucked up, emotionally raw. 

She looks at him now, thinks how she just wants another chance to hold onto him, tell him how sorry she is. Then wonders if that’s just self-serving, only a desire to get rid of her own guilt. 

Because maybe Quinn just wants to go, leave all this bullshit behind. People like her that would risk his life for nothing, pull him back into darkness at every turn. 

Especially if this is all that’s left to him - a barely functioning body, a badly damaged brain. 

This isn’t her Quinn anymore, she thinks to herself. And yet it is. It’s still the man who stood by her through her worst, the guy she’s counted on for so long. 

A beacon in the headlands, steering her clear of rocks. 

Well Quinn, help me now, she thinks, watching him sleep on and on. 

Tell me what to do. 

*

The doctor’s words ring in her ears, as they have for days. Condition downgraded, chances of recovery negligible. 

She still tries to think he will fight through this, survive as he always has. But it gets harder by the day, as she watches for any sign of consciousness, any waver in his EEG. 

And always the choice looms over her, sticks to her every thought. Keeps her up at night, follows her every moment of the day. 

What would he want? Could she do it, even if she was sure?    
The anxiety, the pressure, the endless sadness. It’s pushing her into a depressive episode, despite her meds. She feels it coming on, knows she has to make this choice before it really shows up, corrupts her thoughts. 

So she forces her own hand, gives herself a date to decide by. Has already thought it through forwards and backwards a million times. And now she just has to make up her mind once and for all.

That is what Carrie tells herself as she bars the door, making herself face the reality of the situation. Murder, really. Of her best friend, someone she loves. And if that’s the choice she makes, she will need some time alone with him, before the authorities show up. 

She’s killed before. They are both killers, many times over. For good, they told themselves. 

But can any good come out of death? Even if it’s what he wants. Could she possibly do it? 

Carrie walks over to the window, closes the blinds. Turns and looks at Quinn, tries to breathe her way through her decision. 

She keeps hearing his words, over and over in her head. 

And here’s the thing, this death, this end of me is exactly what should have happened. I wanted the darkness, I fucking asked for it. It has me now. 

Is this what he was trying to tell her? To let him go? 

She stands over his bed, removes his heart monitor and places it on her own finger. Looks at him in his endless sleep, tears in her eyes. 

Are you there? she asks him silently. Tell me what you want. 

But there’s nothing but the quiet in and out of his breath, his words in her mind. 

She knows he wouldn’t want this, but maybe he wouldn’t want her to give up on him yet. What was it the Iraqi doctor said? For a man that wanted to die, he fought so hard to live.

And he’s still alive now, despite the long odds, all he’s been through. Which offers the slimmest bit of hope, a chance for her to hang onto. 

But that just makes her feel selfish, that she’s hanging on for her own need for him. This is about Quinn, what he would choose if he could. 

Again she thinks how she shouldn’t be the one to make this choice, that she was never able to put him first. And yet she knows he would trust her to do this, that he would want her to be the one. 

The thoughts teeter back and forth as they have for days and days. What would he choose? And is she even strong enough to let him go? 

Carrie stands there, her mind flickering back and forth. This isn’t something to be rushed, this decision that can never be taken back. 

She leans over Quinn, the question on her lips. What do you want? Listens with her heart.

Nothing, at first. 

And just then a golden light comes through the window, bathes him in an almost unearthly glow. 

The timing could not have been more exact, an answer to her unspoken question. Startled, Carrie looks out the window in wonder. Can’t help but think it’s God, trying to tell her something. 

For a moment she doesn’t know what it means, rattled by the scene. But then she remembers. His faith in her to do the right thing, to come through in the end. Her faith in him, that he would always be there for her if she needed him, that he would do anything for her. 

Including survive the worst because she needs it of him, coming through all odds to see her through the worst. Maybe even finding a different self on the other end, for both of them. 

She’s spent the past two years trying to come back to her faith, repenting. And now Carrie tries to take it all in, understand God’s plan for her, for Quinn, for all the pain they’ve put themselves and each other through. 

Faith. That’s what it all comes back to, she realizes. She needs to believe in him, in the Quinn that always looked out for her, that could love her despite all she put him through, all he had gone through. That is the Quinn she should have been looking to for answers, not the guy who always thought he was a bad person, inevitably drawn to darkness. 

The Quinn who abandoned his Haqqani murder-suicide mission to come to her father’s funeral. The Quinn who offered her a chance, one she was too afraid to take. 

That’s the man she has faith in, the guy who could still feel so much despite all the hardness of his life. And if there’s even a chance he could have a chance at a real life beyond this. A real love. 

That is what he deserves. And she’s not sure she can be the one to give it to him, if he will still feel anything for her if he ever wakes up. But, regardless, she knows she has to let him have the chance at another life. That this is her decision for him, and only for him. So that he might still experience the feeling of being loved, of having his needs put first. 

Carrie takes a long breath, realizes her decision has been made. Smiles sadly as she looks down at him, memories flowing through. All those times he stood by her silently with that concerned look, his usual terse caring. 

She realizes then she could never have done it, even if she was sure it was what he wanted. She’s harmed him enough, could never live with herself to have taken what’s left of him. Even if it’s not what he wants in the end. She’s doing it for him, nevertheless. 

Decision made, her heart calm again, the light passes. 

And she’s left there watching him as always, her heartbeat on his monitor. 

It’s always been like this too, she thinks. Her heart beats in his chest, he’s the only one to really know her. Well, if it’s what it takes to keep him with her, she will live for the both of them for now, have faith that he will find his way back. 

*

Many days later. Hundreds of hours. 

Carrie’s lost track of time, has no idea what she’s even hoping for these days. All she knows is her daughter is still far away from her, that she’s still in between worlds. 

She’s thought about bringing Frannie here, wants to hold her close, breathe her in. But it wouldn’t be fair to Frannie, taking her from her ‘normal’ life with her aunt and her cousins. To be here, at the hospital, with a parent that is still lost in remorse, grief. 

She spends all her minutes here, with Quinn. Thinking about everything. His life, hers. All that was and wasn’t between them. How she ended up here, finally understanding what he means to her. 

She’s running her fingers through his unconsciously, a habit she’s formed. sliding her thumb against the softening callouses of his hands. His finger twitches and she resists the anticipation of something more. He does this once in awhile, reflexively twitch or grasp, nothing more than random firing in his damaged brain. It’s given her false hope too many times already, she’s learned to tame her expectations.

But of course she looks anyways, searches his face for any sign. And at first Carrie tells herself she’s just imagining things. but then his eyelids flutter again and she grasps his hand hard, has to tell herself to breathe. 

Tears slip free and she’s almost bitten through her bottom lip by the time his eyes stay open for a moment and he tries to blink, keep them open.

“Oh my god,” she gasps. “Quinn, it’s Carrie, do you hear me?” 

He doesn’t respond right away, there’s a long delay while he blinks slowly, then tries to move his head. 

Carrie’s completely frozen by this point, caught in the miracle of the moment, the question of what’s about to happen. How damaged he will be, if he will remember anything. 

He’s still for a moment, eyes staring blankly just like he did when they woke him up. It makes her heart freeze, remembering what happened next. As if on cue, he then looks at her directly and she can see the panic rise in his eyes, the tenseness in his body. 

‘Fuck’, she thinks, panic starting to rise in her own chest. Memories of him crashing, his body seizing flooding into her mind. 

Carrie puts her hand on his chest, both to calm herself and to assure him. That she’s here, that he’s not alone. She lets a few breaths pass between them, feels his heart rate start to go down.

She absently runs her fingers through his hair again, looks carefully at him. Quinn blinks a few times, finally seems to focus his gaze on her. He still looks panicked but there’s recognition there too, she thinks. 

“Hey hey, Quinn,” she says softly. Takes his hand in hers. 

“Everything’s okay. You’re safe. There was no attack.” 

He understands her, she can see it. At least some of him is still there, her Quinn. 

Carrie gasps in relief, feels tears start to form. She can’t believe this is actually happening - she’s dreamt of it so many times, only to wake up, cry her eyes out yet again. 

But this is real life. Quinn’s lips move but nothing comes out. She puts her finger to them, says shhh. Reaches over to get some water and a straw, wonders if he will be able to do even that. 

It takes him awhile to get the right muscles moving, but he struggles through it, sips some water. Carrie wonders vaguely if she’s supposed to be letting him do this but doesn’t want to leave the moment to ask, alert his doctors. 

He manages another sip of water, then looks exhausted with the effort, closes his eyes. Her heart seizes, sure she’s about to lose him again. Or that this was just some hallucination brought on by stress and grief. 

Carrie grabs his hand, harder than she means to and his eyes fly open in surprise. 

“Shit, sorry Quinn,” she mumbles, as relief pours over her. She isn’t imagining this, he’s really awake. 

Carrie smiles at him so brightly, thinks this can’t be happening. she doesn’t deserve this.

But he does, her beautiful assassin, who’s suffered so much.

She only accepted he was hers way too late, a mistake she thought she’d never be able to take back. But now she thinks, maybe not. Maybe there are second chances. 

The tears come then, she feels them start to slip, doesn’t bother to try and contain them. 

“Goddammit Quinn. Don’t leave me ever again okay,” she whispers. 

He looks confused and for a moment Carrie thinks maybe he doesn’t even know who she is. What if he doesn’t remember anything about himself, her. What they had been to each other, through the worst of situations. 

But then he furrows his brow that way he does, looks at her throughly. 

“You should have let me go, Carrie,” he says, quiet and serious, exactly like he would. 

Of course. He is still her Quinn. 

Carrie shakes her head, smiles at him through her tears. Again quiets him with a finger on his lips. 

“I almost lost you. I won’t ever let you go,” she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, wasn't that nice and traumatic for everyone? the skizzen are done! and the end of s5 was officially the hardest ever to write. onwards to happier times for c and q? we can only hope... and create fic! (next series already in the works... stay tuned)


End file.
